


End of the Road

by Aoidos



Category: Inception (2010), Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 116,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoidos/pseuds/Aoidos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max Rockatansky has lived alone for many years. That all changes when Immortan Joe's War Boys abduct him, setting in motion a series of events that leads to him meeting Furiosa and Immortan's omega brides, including a young man named Arthur</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is really a Mad Max AU and an Inception AU, thus a way for me to crowbar Arthur/Eames into yet another fandom.
> 
> The role of Conch is played by Ben Whishaw because God help me
> 
> I switched around some plot points to suit my needs, so excuse any inconsistencies that differ from the film. I've only been able to see it once, and the script isn't available online, so I had to recall things from memory.

Time died with the old world. The days are no longer parsed in concrete hours, minutes, and seconds, but rather decay in tumbling pillars, and the survivors leapfrog from one moment to the next. Even the ground is malleable, sand always moving and shifting. Makes it hard to run from them, so the ones who run die, and the ones who drive the cars live. Max is always afraid, always driving, never daring to sleep, a mistake because now movies play when he closes his eyes. Just flashes. His wife. His daughter’s face. Hallucinations, but they feel real. 

Sometimes he reaches for his daughter’s hand and grabs air.

How long have they been dead? Hard to say. His hair is long now, beard tangled and thick. Enemy tribes razed their clan and killed all omegas and the children. They enslaved the alphas, all except Max, who escaped into the desert. For a while, he thought death would take him because the pain of losing his mate and child was so great, but his physical body refused to succumb. He’s numb. When he talks out loud, the buzzards and lizards ignore him. Maybe he did die but the brain won’t agree to its new terms. Maybe he’s a ghost.

He steals gasoline and canteens of water from various tribes, forced to kill only when another alpha tries to take his life. Max moves forward, driving deeper into the desert, unsure of where he’s going, but knowing if he stops, he’ll die. And he cannot die because he cannot face the judgment in his daughter’s eyes as he burns forever in fire: _You did this. You let us die_.

Afraid to sleep, he sprawls on the hood of his car and looks at the stars. Engines rumble on the horizon, and he listens, waiting for them to come and take him.

They don’t until they do. The chase is short: a frantic sprint through the brown wasteland until he loses control of the car and it flips. He wakes up too late. The white faces of the War Boys flood his vision, mouths twisted in hysterical glory. They have him. They have him and now he is no longer Max. He is a body, a village of resources to be plundered and exploited. They hack off his hair and beard to make clothes and keep him as a blood bag, strung up because he has the burden of being a universal donor, one that can be hooked up to anyone, but they give him to a War Pup, a child. One of the War Boys calls him Nux, and he has an image of a car’s engine tattooed into his chest, a reminder that he is not free, but a possession of Immortan Joe.

All things belong to the desert king.

Max is strapped upside down to increase the blood flow, and for the first time he wishes they had killed him. He doesn’t want to live his final days like this, slowly being depleted of his life force. They’ve taken his jacket and his blood. What else can they take? Better to go out with a bang. He would swing forward and maul Nux’s face with his teeth, but they have wisely suited his crown with an iron shield. “I’m gonna die historic,” Nux announces, but he doesn’t know what the boy means. Something has happened. All the War Boys are kicking up a fuss. Something about Immortan Joe, his omegas, and someone named Furiosa.

 

* * *

 

Toast is smart and good with numbers so she keeps a calendar on the wall of her room. She stole a bit of chalk from the War Boys and ticks off the days, crossing off a group at five. Capable once asks her how long it’s been, and she frowns at the wall for a long time before saying, “Long time. Many days. More than three hundred.” Long enough for a few of the omegas to get pregnant courtesy of the Immortan, after the abductions, after stripping them of their names and identities.

He took Arthur’s name the night he came into his room and slapped him for refusing to submit. So Arthur clawed his face, nearly took out his eye, but Joe hit him again, and again, until he laid still and let it happen. That’s the day he became Larrikin, a backhanded sort of compliment, fond and cruel as is the Immortan’s style. Splended, the king’s favorite, asked him why he fought. Larrikin shrugged and said, “It’s all I have.”

Splended smiled, took his hand, and squeezed it. “Yes,” she agreed, dangerous with urgency, making him think of storm clouds building on the horizon.

At night, when the Immortan visits, and the cries and soft wails fill the vault, Larrikin lays in bed and stares at the grey ceiling. Beyond the locked door, the milking machines make their _whishwhishwhish_ metallic churning noises. He knows they will be kept here, bred until they’re too old to provide children, and occasionally strapped to the machines to provided the War Boys with milk. Then he’ll be thrown away like trash. 

All the omega wives have been thinking the words for some time, but it took Splended to articulate them aloud. They convened one afternoon in The Dag’s quarters, all the wives gathered on her bed, warily watching Splendid, whose belly is now swollen with Immortan’s child. She and The Dag are the only ones to conceive so far. Larrikin thanks the universe every day he wakes up within a body that has refused the tyrant’s seed. 

Of all the wives, Splendid is the most stunning: tall, golden hair, and olive skin. She crosses her arms and announces: “We are not things.” _Yes_ , he agrees to himself, but no one has told the Immortan that. “Furiosa says she’ll help us. Sneak us out in her War Rig. Far away where he can’t get us.”

The Dag is giddy, grinning toothily, “Immortan’s gonna pop his top.”

The other male omega, Conch, frowns and rubs his bare arms. They’re almost sticks, the muscles deprived of protein, elbows jagged bones pressing against sallow skin. “Where will we go? Nothing is out there, Splendid. Just desert, and after that, more sand.”

“Furiosa’s gonna take us to her people. They can help us,” she says, rubbing her stomach through sheer linens.

Conch is unconvinced, face marred with worry, but he won’t spill the secret. Arms loop his shoulders and sweet Capable presses a kiss to his cheek. “We’ll look after each other.”

He’s not alone in his doubt. Cheedo has been quiet the whole time, but finally pipes up: “He’ll find us. Immortan won’t just let us go. He’ll catch us and make us sorry we ever left.”

There’s the great fear, articulated, painted large and ugly as the Citadel itself. If they run, and the War Boys catch them, Immortan will make them pay. He may not kill his breeders, but he’ll torture them to teach a never-to-be-forgotten lesson.

“If we’re going to do it, it has to be now. He’s low on resources and manpower. He’s weak,” Toast says, drumming her knuckles against the wall. “Plus, we’ll have Furiosa.”

A one-woman army driving the most feared vehicle in Immortan’s entire fleet. Not a bad situation to be in, if they’re planning an escape, which they are. It’s clear Splendid, The Dag, Capable, and Toast are on the same page. They want to make a run for it. That leaves Cheedo, Conch, and himself who need to vote. Technically, the omegas have their majority, but they prefer to make decisions unanimously. Larrikin stands and walks towards his sister, who deviantly lifts her chin as if challenging any lingering doubt festering in his brain. He grips the back of her neck and tilts her crown, pressing their foreheads together. 

“I’m with you.”

“Me too,” Conch softly whispers, going along with the plan as soon as Larrikin expresses his agreement, as is his custom. 

All eyes fall upon Cheedo, who gravely sighs. She believes they will die in the desert, and yet it’s better to die with her omega kin than alone in a tomb. Her weak nod is acquiescence.

 

* * *

 

The War Boys are chanting into the night, their shouts a garbled amalgam. Most likely, they’ve abducted more blood bags. Larrikin lays in bed, arms folded behind his head, and listens until the vault’s main door grinds open and Immortan’s heavy boots drag along the hallway. He schools his features into a blank mask the closer the steps come until his door opens and the king’s shadow falls across the floor. Even then, Larrikin refuses to look at him, nor does he make a sound when the alpha grabs him and rips off the linens. Immortan prefers him on all fours, flipping him onto his stomach, and Larrikin curses himself when a pained whimper escapes his mouth during the first thrust. His teeth sink into his forearm to stifle further noises, not wanting to give the tyrant any satisfaction.

“My dark philly,” Immortan pants against his neck, and Larrikin turns away from his foul breath. He doesn’t know why the man calls him that. Flesh-wise, Toast is darker than him, and Conch is also a brunette. Maybe the man means his soul. Larrikin has been a difficult breeder since the first days: fighting, biting, and spitting when the War Boys tried to rape him in his former village. Immortan likes his spirit, but there is a darkness that lives inside him.

He imagines Immortan’s head on a pike during the last painful thrusts. Larrikin wishes he could record the pathetic noise the king makes as he trembles across his back, spilling his seed deep inside. _Behold, your mighty leader_. After Immortan leaves, he squats in the corner of his room and scoops the seed from his depths with his fingers, a desperate last resort to prevent pregnancy. So far, he’s been lucky, but time is running out. Sooner or later, he will get pregnant, and then he’ll be bound to Immortan and this place forever.

 

* * *

 

There’s a grand piano in the middle of the vault’s main seating area. Conch sits on the bench and taps the middle key, delighting in the way the tone ricochets off the cathedral ceiling. He’s so immersed that he doesn’t hear the Immortan, and practically leaps into the air when a cold hand touches his shoulder. “I didn’t, I wasn’t—“ he sputters, head bowed deferentially. He’s not supposed to play unless the king is present to enjoy the music. Most people can’t eat or drink water, and a luxury such as music is reserved only for the chosen one.

His nose tells him the king has recently visited Larrikin’s room. He didn’t hear any unusual noises, but then again, Larrikin is stubborn and wouldn’t cry. Conch can’t help it when he does because Immortan frightens him. The alpha grips his chin, squeezing until it hurts and he has to look up, but instead of looking angry, the tyrant chuckles and flashes yellow teeth. “Play for me, little dove.”

He’s not very good, but obliges nonetheless, making it up as he goes along. Frequently, Conch’s fingers strike sour notes, but Immortan never expresses displeasure. It’s enough to hear something besides car engines and the agonized cries of the starving masses. When he’s played enough, Immortan touches his shoulder again, and he stops, fingers slipping off the ivory keys. Conch folds his hands across his lap, head bowed as he focuses on repressing the shiver traveling up his spine. It’s not the tumors across Immortan’s back, nor his wild hair or rotting teeth, that upset Conch. It’s how relentlessly cold he is, despite their location in the middle of the desert.

“You’re so good. You’ve always been so good. Always my favorite,” Immortan encourages, stroking his thick hair. Conch closes his eyes, for a split second genuinely enjoying the praise even though he knows the words are a lie. Splendid is his beloved, but Conch is aware he’s one of the better behaved omegas, obedient even if he does cry sometimes during their rutting. He knows Immortan values his submissiveness. The cold paw strokes his cheek, traveling south until strong fingers circle his throat and squeeze, just enough to make a point. The alpha could snap his neck if he wished. “Always so sweet, so honest.”

The meeting with the other omegas flashes in his mind, but the secret stays buried deep. The love for his sisters and brother outweighs fear of Immortan. The king suspects something, but Conch stays quiet, and he eventually accepts that as proof nothing is going on. No great conspiracy to be uncovered. The cold hand departs from his throat and the alpha exits the vault soon after, door locking behind him, leaving Conch alone to delicately press the middle key again and again as he decides to tell Splendid about their conversation. Immortan knows they’re planning something. 

They have to leave soon.

 

* * *

 

It’s almost time for the watering, and in anticipation the War Boys are whipped up in a frenzy, driving deep into the dunes on raids and terrorizing any stragglers they encounter. In the meantime, Immortan Joe is distracted with ruling matters and negotiations with Gas Town and the Bullet Farm. Everyone has something the others need: water, gasoline, or ammunition. The question is: who gets what and for what in exchange? The heads of each clan are male alphas, of course, which means the rest are treated as accessories or resources to be exploited.

Furiosa taps her metal claw against the dashboard, using morse code to communicate with Dagger, one of the War Boys who rides up top on runs. “Boss wants to know when we’re off!” he barks to one of their underlings. Her gaze remains fixed on the lip of the Citadel’s balcony, where Immortan is scheduled to appear soon, once he’s locked inside a medical suit and oxygen mask painted to look like an animal’s snarl, a resources-rich attempt to delay the inevitable consequences of radiation exposure. Immortan and his bastard children are dying from birth defects, malnutrition, and the byproducts of living in a nuclear wasteland, but he’s too vain to accept reality. In his last meager days, he plans to rape and pillage, depriving the masses of access to water.

She waits and quietly watches.

The War Boys and War Pups mill about, oblivious to the fact that Immortan’s omegas are nestled in the belly of the War Rig. She’s only shared a handful of words with Splendid, the architect of the escape. Furiosa’s main contact is an old woman, Miss Giddy, whose job is watcher of the omegas. Giddy was standing beside the War Rig one night, and seized Furiosa’s flesh arm with surprising strength as she relayed a woebegone tail of imprisonment and violence. And while she is no stranger to the ugly nature of the world they live in, Furiosa will not tolerate, under any circumstances, violence against omegas.

“They are not things,” the Giddy gasped.

That’s where she and Immortan have always disagreed. He views the War Boys and omegas as objects to exploit — the boys are agents of chaos, used at his discretion in warfare, and the omegas are baby incubators and occasional bovines to milk. But the old woman is right. They are not Immortan’s things. They are living, breathing people with hopes and desires, and Furiosa has recently decided she will no longer help Immortan kill what remains of the world.

She tells Giddy to inform Immortan’s omegas that they will escape to the Green Place, her childhood home, a rare patch of vibrant land where the free people live. The woman’s wide gaze is disbelieving, but Furiosa assures her it’s true. She’s seen the place with her own eyes, and her people will welcome the omegas with open arms.

Last night, she waited by the War Rig, and under cover of darkness the omegas ran from the Citadel, freed from their prison inside the vault by the old woman. They are half-naked, draped only in crudely tailored sheets, but they have all their teeth, unblemished skin, and Furiosa’s alpha brain must silently acknowledge they are each stunningly beautiful (from what she can discern in the flashes of their faces before stuffing them below deck). One of the omegas, a fair female with red hair, grabs her hand before she can close the hatch door, kissing the flesh knuckles, “Thank you. _Thank you_ , merciful Furiosa.” She doesn’t know what to say in return, but her throat feels tight as she closes the door.

She stares up at the balcony as Immortan’s white head appears and he roars down to the desperate masses. From the vantage point, she can see many of them are elderly, or too skinny, ribs pressing against burnt and discolored torsos. An old man and woman at the front hold up their baskets in anticipation, agonizing as they wait for just a few drops of water. Furiosa knows the omegas have had access to Immortan’s _Aqua Cola_. They probably bathed in the stuff, luxuriating in the underground pools, swimming for leisure whenever Immortan allowed it. But she doesn’t feel bitter or resentful. That is one of very few perks his omegas get to enjoy.

Outside, the War Boys walk back and forth, checking on the rig, and she waits for a whisper or cough to alert them to the precious cargo. Miraculously, only silence answers back, and suddenly the crowd erupts. When she looks up, all heads are turned in her direction, and though he’s far aware, she feels the weight of the Immortan’s gaze. He has called her by name for she is his greatest warrior, charged with a run to Gas Town. The crowd chants her name and Furiosa’s grip tightens on the wheel. _Just let me leave. Once I’m out there, I can survive._

“They love you, boss! Truly, they do!” Dagger howls.

She doesn’t answer.

Furoisa hates that the sight of water raining down moves her so. Nostalgia is a clawing, desperate animal. The temporary waterfall reminds her of the old world, when there was still time to make right all the wrongs. But just as soon as it begins, the War Pups turn the gears and close the dam once more, leaving just the unforgiving, stark nothingness of desert rock. The tribe buries their faces in the baskets and bowls, drinking too fast, vomiting up the water and then lapping that up too.

Surviving is not the same as living.

She punches in the sequences to start the War Rig, and when its mighty engine roars to life, the people cheer. She leans her head out the open window and barks: “Drive!” And the War Boys deliriously scream, overcome by the intoxicating lie that they serve a deity and not a greedy, aging man. Only a handful of boys will accompany her as escorts, so she’ll be able to deal with them when the time comes. She drives across the flatlands, occasionally glancing in a mirror to watch the Citadel grow smaller and smaller, and though it’s the last time she will see the place that has been her home for thousands of days, she feels no sadness in her heart.

Every mile away from the Citadel is a mile closer to home.

The boys aren’t a bright bunch, but even they notice when she veers away from the path that leads to Gas Town. “Boss, boss!” Dagger cries, leaning down from the roof, his baffled face filling the window, “Gas Town is that way!” he informs, pointing back towards the path.

“New plan,” she curtly responds, and he relays the order without question because the boy trusts her.

She tries not to feel sick about it.

Furiosa imagines the Immortan’s chamber at the top of the Citadel, the leader carefully watching her through a telescope, no doubt having noticed she’s veered off course— _Ah, yes, there they are._ Trails of smoke fill the mirrors, tiny cars tearing through the desert, growing larger in the dirt-covered glass. War Boys sent to rein her in. “Boss!” Dagger cries, still wanting to believe this is all a mistake. That she’s made a tiny miscalculation. No harm, no fuss. All can be made right again.

Her boot jams the gas, picking up speed, War Rig aimed at the wall of a sand storm. She glances to the side and sees one of the War Boys hugging her flank, a blood bag strapped to the front of his car. Poor bastard. Another casualty of war. Furiosa increases the speed, rolling up her window before the sand pelts the windshield. The rig wants to bear right, so she compensates, pulling the wheel to the left. She hears Dagger’s body tumble across the roof before it’s sucked into the air. The whole carriage tilts, threatening to tip, but she keeps the needle steady. Inside the brown cyclone, she glances out the window. A flurry of movement. The blood bag is loose. _Never underestimate the desire to live_. The War Boy spills some kind of liquid — _fuel_ , she dimly registers. He’s on a suicide mission. His silver lips flap wildly, screaming something. She can’t hear him, but knows the word, “Witness!” 

He’s going to kill them all. The great Furiosa, a charred corpse in the desert. The boy sparks a flare and for a split second, she sees his face: unlined, bright eyes. Too young.

The blood bag smashes his way into the car, and Furiosa has to look away because she’s reached the wall’s end. She needs to focus on driving. Blood bag dives onto the War Boy, wrestling the flare away from him. Saving them. _No_ , she scolds, saving _himself_. That’s all it is.

There is no love or compassion, only survival.

 

* * *

 

He’s dead, buried deep in the desert. Death is heavy darkness. _No, not dead_. _How’d you be thinking this stuff if you were dead_? Max slowly picks up his head, a curtain of sand rolling off him. The storm is over. War Boy’s car is a twisted corpse of steel. _Run._ Max jumps to his feet, but his arm is anchored in place by something _. The chain, fuck wit._ They’re chained together and the boy is dead to the world. With trembling hands, he removes the blood line and sucks in a deep, cleansing breath. _My blood is mine._ He sits on his heels and surveys the landscape before spotting the butt of a gun jutting out from the sand. _Any port in a storm_. Aims the barrel at the boy’s hand. A shotgun blast at this range will blow the hand clean off. _Then we’ll be square._ He pulls the trigger and the gun powder sparks with a disappointing little sigh. _Busted_. Only one way out, then. Max heaves the boy across his shoulders and starts walking, trudging really, across the plane. 

Not long before he spots the War Rig and experiences a dangerous thing: a surge of hope. He’ll hijack the vehicle. Imagine that. Max Rockatansky driving Immortan’s War Rig. No one will fuck with him then. He rounds the vehicle and temporarily forgets the plan when he sees Immortan’s omegas, half-naked, washing off with a hose. They freeze upon seeing him, and he freezes upon seeing them seeing him. Tales of their beauty haven’t prepared him for witnessing them himself. They are pale, unburnt by the sun, skin unmarred by war. There’s a male omega with dark hair. Max is still looking at him when Furiosa barks and he remembers the plan.

He aims the gun at her and demands the hose. “You,” he says, pointing to the young man. There’s another male standing just behind him, but he’s shaking so hard Max is a little afraid he’ll faint if called out. The other male has a calm face, even as he slowly approaches and lifts the hose. Max throws down the War Boy and drinks greedily, as best he can, through the bloody mask. He’s gotta get this thing off. When he looks over to the omega, the male is still watching him curiously. “What?” he grunts.

“Are you a pirate?” he inquires. His eyes are like desert amber. Max hasn’t been this close to an omega in a while and the young man’s scent is doing funny things to his head. He waves the gun threateningly at him. “Go,” he grunts, nodding to the rest of the omegas. The young man shrugs and retreats back to the group. He’s still watching the gentle sway of the omega’s hips when Furiosa slams into him like a shit ton of bricks.

Air rushes out of him and a pathetic grunt spills out in the time it takes the other alpha to mount him, wrestle the gun away, point the barrel at his head and pull the trigger. He recognizes the disappointment in her face. _I thought it would work too_. Max growls and sweeps her off, diving down to attack, but something whips him backwards. _The buggering omegas_ have his chain and they’re pulling him away from their captain. Crazy Furiosa charges again, this time armed with a wrench, and he stumbles backwards, barely avoiding the sweep of her arm. 

All the commotion wakes the boy, who yanks on the chain and trips Furiosa. War makes the most unlikely allies. 

Furiosa hits the ground with an outraged cry, but recovers in a flash and charges to the side of the War Rig, and it takes Max too long to figure out why. A hidden gun. She’s going to blow out his brains all across the desert. The War Boy suddenly tackles her and he doesn’t hesitate to join in, wrestling the gun away from foaming-at-the-mouth Furiosa. The two of them are barely a match for her, and a different time, a different place, he might have paused in awe of her strength. 

She keeps fighting, rallying again to pin him against War Rig and eject the loaded clip. He grunts in surprise when it plops to the sand. The boy sees the clip and grabs it, but just then a frigid blast slams into his face. The hose. _The buggering omegas_ again. He walks through the wall for the sake of grabbing Furiosa and pinning her to the ground. _Enough, dammit_. The boy jams the clip back into the gun and Max fires four shots into the ground, kissing distance from Furiosa’s ear. That takes the fight out of her. He looks up, snarling through the mask, and the omegas lower the hose, the apparatus timidly drizzling by the brunette omega’s side.

He barks orders: _you, cut this_ , and the brunette returns with a large pair of bolt cutters. He strains for a moment, but eventually frees Max from his connection to the War Boy. Max looks at his pale face, and for a split second, considers taking him. It’s his right. He won this battle. No one would stop him. Maybe Furiosa would try, but he’ll win again eventually. Perhaps reading his mind ( _omegas can do that, y’know_ ), the youth speaks: “We’re not going back.”

Reality pieces together in the relative peace. He notices the blonde omega’s swollen stomach. _Pregnant_. The memory of his own pregnant mate sobers him. He remembers the War Boys storming the village, raping the omegas. _I’m not them_. Max pushes past the young man and climbs into the War Rig, ignoring Furiosa’s objections and the boy begging to come along. He thinks their temporary truce makes them partners. “No,” he grunts, starting the engine, and pulling away. He only makes it a few yards before the engine dies, and just as he’s begun to swear and inspect the dashboard, Furiosa scales the side and smugly stares at him through the window.

“Kill switch. I’m the only one who knows the code,” she explains. Max shows his teeth in a snarl. He could torture the information from her, but something tells him Furiosa doesn’t spill secrets easy. “You wanna get out here? What’s your name?” Max stares blankly at her, aggressively uncooperative. Furiosa pivots, attempting a different course: “You want that thing off your face?” The woman knows how to barter. He stares at her, allowing the fatigue to show. In the mirror, the War Boy is a white dot against the sand, charging in the general direction of the Citadel. He’ll return to Immortan and tell him everything. Reserves are on the way. They don’t have much time. Max grunts and opens the door so Furiosa can climb inside. “I’m not leaving without them,” she insists.

He sighs and looks out at the barely-dressed omegas. They’re a liability, but he’s not in a position to negotiate. Max tries not to watch as they cut the chastity belts off their waists, and he has to suppress a smile that threatens his lips when one of them, a female with white hair, viciously kicks at the apparatus and spits at it.

 

* * *

 

If you survive as long as she has, you develop something of a sixth sense for people. Furiosa doesn’t know the man’s name, but she believes they are safe in his company. Her alpha brain can detect the omegas’ anxiety and she tries to calm them with her steady gaze and half-smiles. _I won’t let him hurt you_. She can tell the only one who fully believes her is Splendid, whose cherubic face reflects her absolute trust. The gaze warms Furiosa, but she swiftly squashes the sensation. Remaining focused is essential, so she tells the omegas to hide in the belly of the rig.

The meeting is within a narrow canyon, the deal struck with a local biker gang. Gasoline for a safe passage. A fair business transaction. “I need you. You may need to drive the rig,” she tells the man. He grunts, responding in his verbally minimalistic way, before descending into the hatch, submerging until only his face and the barrel of the gun point out. She parks between the high rock walls and alights, announcing to the desert air that the tanker is here, filled to the brim with precious petrol. In the distance, engines roar. _Immortan’s boys_. The bikers aren’t stupid, and they appear at the top of the canyon, shouting accusations of sabotage. After all, she’s brought the full wrath of Immortan Joe to their front door. Furiosa can see the whole plan unravel seconds before the bikers detonate the entrance to the canyon, an earth-shaking wallop as she scrambles back into the rig.

All she can think about is how frightened the omegas must be, but they climb out of the hatch a moment later, explaining they can’t breathe in the cramped space, surrounded by the rig’s gas fumes. Furiosa shouts, telling them to take cover, but they refuse to go back down below.

She speeds through the canyon, beelining for the gap in rock that will be their exit, but the bikers pursue them, enraged by Furiosa’s failure to uphold her end of the deal. Their leader aims a rifle her way, but the other alpha shoots him, and he tumbles off the bike. When she glances at him, a pleased smirk hangs on his lips. Immortan has circumvented the canyon, avoiding the blast, and his War Boys descend upon them the second they tear out of the canyon. “I’ll go,” he volunteers, and Furiosa slaps a pick into his hand to remove the mask. He gazes at it and nods once in thanks.

Furiosa glances to the side and sees Immortan inside his car, and the War Boy from before. As predicted, he returned to the Citadel and ratted on them. A gleam of recognition, perhaps respect, in Immortan’s gaze before he raises the gun and points it at her. The rig’s door flies open, and Furiosa barely has time to make sense of what’s happening before Splendid leans out of the rig, her pregnant body shielding Furiosa from the tyrant’s wrath. Her golden hair whips in the wind, chin proudly raised. The Immortan slowly lowers his weapon, deep voice bellowing, “That’s my property!”

Bootfalls across the roof. When Furiosa glances in the mirror, she sees the man, newly liberated from the mask, fighting the War Boys and tossing them off the rig. He returns to the car and takes over driving so Furiosa can ride shotgun, fetching one of her hidden guns and picking off the War Boys one-by-one. The rig jars suddenly and Splendid slips out of the truck, a scream tearing from Toast’s mouth when she disappears. “Where is she?” Furiosa screams, imagining the worst.

The other alpha leans to the side, looking out his window, and smiles thinly, offering a thumbs up, and Furiosa sees Splendid gripping the side of the truck. The defiant gleam still in her eyes. A relieved laugh escapes, affection and pride swelling in her chest a second before the War Boys ram them from behind and Splendid slips and falls, this time truly disappearing. Furiosa looks away to hide her face, taking a moment to violently drown the desire to sob. “Splendid!” Conch cries, almost climbing out the window before Larrikin grabs his arm to stop him. 

“You have to stop!” Capable demands.

“She’s gone,” the man grunts.

The omegas look to her, silently commanding Furiosa to stop him. She swallows and asks, “Did she go under the wheels?” The man doesn’t answer, but she presses: “Did you see her?”

He’s quiet for a few beats. “I saw her,” he finally says.

Furiosa nods, “We keep driving.” She folds up the last image of Splendid’s proud face and hides it somewhere deep inside her heart.

She tells him the plan. They’re going to the Green Place, the home of her youth. There, they will meet her people, and find a safe community to live. The man offers an expression that means he thinks she’s spinning fairytales, but Furiosa doesn’t care. She knows the Green Place is real. That’s all that matters.

 

* * *

 

Someone needs to check the rig’s fuel tank, and Capable volunteers, flashing a smile when Furiosa offers a concerned look. Now that Splendid is gone, their alpha guide feels extra protective of the rest of them. “I’m okay,” she reassures and slips from the carriage. She finds the War Boy stowed away in one of the compartments, curled up in a meager attempt to hide. He must have boarded the War Rig during the fight. 

Capable lays down beside him and watches his wet face for a few moments.

“I was gonna die historic,” he whispers. If she reports his presence to Furiosa, the alpha may kill him, a shame because the boy is young, no more than eighteen years in age, and when she asks his name, he responds _Nux_. “Your hair looks like fire,” he notes approvingly when he stops crying. She tentatively touches his mouth, sprayed silver to resemble a chrome machine, their custom preceding ritual suicide. Except Nux is not dead, which means he botched the mission and cannot return to the Citadel. 

“It’s not your fault. You’re not his property,” she whispers.

“She died ‘cause of me, baby too. Immortan’s property.”

Capable shakes her head and grips Nux’s face so she can look into his eyes. He’s afraid. “None of us are his property.”

She can tell no one has spoken to him this way before. Confusion washes across his space, followed by the dawn of realization. Capable knows that feeling well. Concepts like autonomy and freedom used to be foreign to her too, but now she can’t imagine living without them. 

 

* * *

 

Night bathes the desert in haunting blues and shadows. The rig gets stuck in a field of mud and he and Furiosa alight to inspect the situation. Max casts a wary gaze along the horizon as Furiosa squats and tries to dig out the wheel by hand, shoveling handfuls of wet mud. He doesn’t like this. They’re too exposed and the moonlight is playing tricks on his eyes. A little girl races on the horizon. No. A dog. One of the desert beasts.

He listens for engines but only hears the wind. “We make camp for tonight.” The morning sun may dry the mud, making escape easier, and Immortan’s boys will wait for light to hunt them. 

Furiosa throws a nasty look his way. “We keep moving.” He shakes his head, showing this time he aims to stick to his guns. It’s foolish to rush into unknown lands in darkness. They could be ambushed. She sighs, looking away, then back to buried wheel, and finally stands, wiping hands across her pants. “Fine, but we’ll rotate watch. I’ll go first.”

Max sleeps fitfully in the passenger seat of the rig, tucked beneath his jacket, recently reacquired during the fight with Immortan’s boys. His wife made the jacket for him from cow hide, and the memory plants her face in his mind, the seed blossoming into a nightmare about the final moments they were together before the raid. He awakes when a hand touches his arm, and Max swiftly draws a blade from the holster on his thigh, and presses the metal to the omega’s throat.

The male stares at him with calm eyes. Gradually, reality comes back to him and Max sheathes the blades, still breathing hard.

“Your turn to watch,” the omega says.

Max is in a sour mood and mumbles a string of profanity before climbing out to relieve Furiosa of her duty. He leans against the rig, alternating between watching the horizon and revisiting the dream: his wife’s dark hair and eyes, and then he thinks about Furiosa’s omega. He isn’t surprised when the young man appears at his side. Max stares at him, miserable and heavy with a fatigue that rests like concrete inside his bones. Their eyes are the same, hair color too. 

“What’s your name?” he asks quietly. _Larrikin_. Max shakes his head. “No, I mean before. What was your name before?” _I don’t want to know what Immortan called you._

The youth hesitates, brow slightly furrowed as he considers the strange request. How many days has Immortan held him hostage? “Arthur,” he finally replies.

He tests the name on his tongue as the omega shifts weight onto the opposite leg, fingers rubbing his bare arms, and even though the moonlight is dim, he can see the flush of his cheeks. He taps his chest, “Max.”

Arthur nods, flashing a wary smile. Even the dimples are the same. Max can’t stop staring at him and of course the omega notices. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

He’s not sure how to begin explaining himself. _You look exactly like my dead wife._ No, that won’t do. _The second I saw you, I wanted to run away with you._ Max rubs the back of his neck, sighing in frustration. Inarticulateness makes him moody and he wants to tell Arthur to go away because it hurts to look at him. He hasn’t been touched by an omega in years. A traitorous part of his brain wonders what would happen if he stepped forward and yanked up the sheet. Would Arthur lean into him? Wrap his legs around his waist? Let Max press inside the wetness between his legs?

He swallows thickly and rasps: “I have to watch.”

Max hopes Arthur will go away, but he doesn’t. “You saved us,” he whispers and Max doesn’t know what to say in answer. The omega sounds like he’s awed by Max’s actions.

“Furiosa saved you.” It’s the truth, anyway. Max is just trying to survive and Furiosa and the omegas are means to an end. He needed a ride and someone to free him from the mask, and as soon as they get to the Green Place, they’ll part ways again.

“But you could have left by now and you didn’t. Why?” Arthur steps closer to him and his sweet scent floods Max’s nostrils again. He blinks and sees a ripe peach, waiting for Max to sink his teeth into its soft flesh. He can taste the grainy juice on his tongue even though he hasn’t eaten one since he was a very young pup. 

Max looks at his pale face. He exhales through his nose, defeated. Dark thoughts creep across his brain like a spreading pool of oil. Immortan Joe has had Arthur. He’s laid atop him and pressed his cock inside. Max wonders if Arthur cried. Probably not. Arthur is steady and proud. He wouldn’t want to show any weakness. _Should have gutted him when I had the chance._ He’s angry with himself for failing Arthur, and swears to kill Immortan before this thing is done. 

“Are you with child?” he asks. Arthur looks surprised but eventually shakes his head. One small mercy, anyway. He glances at the rig, checking to make sure Furiosa or one of the other omegas isn’t eavesdropping. “We could leave, you and me.”

It’d be easier to travel, just the two of them, even without the aid of the rig. Max has managed to survive in the desert without transportation before, and he could do it again, especially with the added motivation of a mate to care for.

Arthur hesitates, which Max actually finds encouraging. The omega is considering his proposal. He’s proven himself capable of protecting omegas. Arthur eventually shakes his head, voice barely above a whisper, “I can’t. Conch is pregnant. We just found out. He’s been throwing up and Toast says he’s with child.” The smaller male omega. Max winces. He can’t imagine how an omega with such narrow hips could carry a child. The birth won’t be easy, if Conch can survive it at all. Most omegas die unless they can deliver the baby through traditional means. Successful cesareans are a luxury of the old world. “Furiosa says the women in the Green Place know how to cut the baby out so the omega won’t die.”

He nods slowly. The mythical Green Place again. Max doesn’t want to extinguish the hopeful gleam in Arthur’s eyes. “Then you should stay with him.”

“And you’ll come with us,” Arthur prompts, young and earnest. Max wants to cup his face and kiss his brow.

Instead, he clears his throat and nods. _Of course_. 

Commotion on the other side of the rig. Max sprints around the truck, gun already drawn and aimed at the intruder. A War Boy — _the_ War Boy who used him as a blood bag. Max snarls and clicks back the hammer, but the red-headed omega throws herself in front of him. “No!” she screams, “Please, don’t! He’s just a boy! He’s a boy!” Her shrieks draw the attention of the others, and soon Furiosa and the rest are gathered beside the truck. The boy is terrified, huddled behind Capable, who shields him in her arms. “His name is Nux. Immortan used him. Just like us,” she pleads to Furiosa.

The other alpha frowns, sharing Max’s trepidation. But luck is on Nux’s side because just then engines roar on the horizon. Immortan has caught up to them at last. He shares an alarmed look with Furiosa and Nux says, “I can help!” pointing at the sunken rig. They don’t have a choice. They need all the hands they can get. Max nods and grabs the chains tossed to him by Furiosa and they secure one end to the rig and wrap the other end around a nearby tree. 

Max walks back to the truck and takes Arthur by the arm, walking him to the rig, “You hide with the others.”

“I’m a good shot,” Arthur insists, freeing his arm.

His lips curl slightly, Max’s chest swelling with affection, “I’m sure you are. But not today.”

Arthur is still scowling as he climbs into the War Rig. Furiosa guns the engine and the heavy rig nearly uproots the tree, so Max runs over and braces against it, attempting to force the roots back into the earth. The wheels spin helplessly in the muck as the Bullet Farmer and his cronies grow larger on the horizon. Nux pushes at the back of the rig, trying to add a bit of heft to free them, and just when it seems hopeless the rig jolts forward, wheels finally finding purchase. Nux cries out victoriously, pumping fists into the air, for the first time looking his eighteen years of age. Max laughs, amazed that they might actually get away and unhooks the chain.

Maybe they can make it to the Green Place. Maybe he and Arthur can be together.

He snatches a rifle from the rig and takes a knee beside the vehicle, carefully aiming the scope at the center of the Bullet Farmer’s head. They’re too close for Furiosa to make a clean getaway. He fires, missing the Bullet Farmer. Max aims again and shoots, blasting out the front headlight of the farmer’s car. He swears beneath his breath, aware of how precious their ammunition is and how wasteful missed shots are. A hand touches his shoulder, and when he looks up, Furiosa is patiently gazing down at him.

He sighs and reluctantly hands her the rifle. The alpha steadies it on his shoulder with her mechanical hand, carefully taking aim. “Don’t breathe,” she instructs as her finger squeezes the trigger. The explosion is immediately followed by the Bullet Farmer’s agonized cry as he claws at his face. Retaliation is swift in the form of machine gun fire, peppering the back of the War Rig.

“Go!” Max shouts to Furiosa, who tries to stop him, but he’s already marching determinately into a wall of dust to finish the job.

 

* * *

 

The omegas are huddled together in the hatch, but when bullets begin to ricochet off the rig, Arthur opens the door. “Don’t,” Cheedo gasps, clutching his arm, but he shakes her off and climbs into the cabin. No one is there so he jumps out of the rig. Furiosa is not pleased when she sees him outside, “Get back in there!” she shouts, roughly grabbing him and shoving him backwards.

“Where is he?” Arthur gasps, looking around. He can’t see Max anywhere.

“ _Now,_ Larrikin,” she growls, practically picking him up by the front of his tunic.

An explosion silences them both, Arthur’s eyes wide in horror as he imagines Max in the middle of the blaze. He’s dead. Their protector is dead. Even Furiosa is stunned into paralysis, watching flames lick the sky. A silhouette appears on the horizon and Furiosa aims the rifle at it. It could be the Bullet Farmer. It could be a War Boy. It could be Immortan Joe.

At last, the curtain of smoke parts to reveal Max. Arthur races away from the rig and throws his arms around the alpha’s shoulders as he winces and chuckles, gently patting his back because his hands are weighed down with items: a bag and a string of ammunition. When he sets them down and unzips the bag, he reveals a pile of guns to Furiosa. “For the journey,” he explains.

Max is going to ride with them until the end.

 

* * *

 

The journey is miserable for Conch, who sometimes has to lean out the window and vomit when morning sickness overwhelms him. He slumps dejectedly against Larrikin, resting his head against the other omega’s shoulder. Larrikin’s hand is cool on his brow, stroking back the damp mat of his hair. The male alpha keeps looking back at him in concern. “Fever?” he asks and Conch can feel when the other omega nods in confirmation. 

“I had a fever too when I first found out. It passes,” The Dag encourages, lacing her fingers with Conch’s and squeezing his hand. He tries to smile in gratitude but another wave of nausea inspires him to instead bury his face into Larrikin’s arm.

He’s afraid, but knows the other omegas and Furiosa will take care of him. “You’ll say a prayer for me?” he asks and The Dag smiles, immediately pressing her hands together and whispering to whoever she prays to — as she put it herself one time — _anyone who will listen_.

“Tell me about the Green Place again,” he pleads and Larrikin repeats what Furiosa has told them: it’s a place where food grows from the earth, ripe and juicy fruits you can eat right off the vine. And pools of fresh water from which tribes drink and bathe. There is cattle and sheep that graze and they can slaughter for meat and use their hide for clothing. There are huts to protect them from the brutal sun and there is no war in the Green Place. Most importantly, the people vote on decisions and most of the tribe is comprised of other omegas just like them. The Green Place means peace and freedom.

Larrikin says all of this, and when Conch opens his eyes, the male alpha is looking back at them. No, not _them_ , at _Larrikin_ , but his gaze is funny. Like he just woke up from a dream.

 

* * *

 

A naked woman is screaming from a cage suspended high in a tree. Furiosa parks the car and they all strain to see her. “Does she need help?” he asks.

“That’s bait,” the male alpha gruffly responds.

Conch shrinks behind Larrikin, cautiously surveying the landscape. It doesn’t seem like an ambush, but then again, Conch isn’t an experienced War Boy. He doesn’t really know what a trap looks like. 

Furiosa climbs out of the truck before any of them can intervene and announces to the dunes her clan alliance. A threatening silence follows before two bikers rip over the hills and speed towards her. In a flash, the woman inside the cage climbs down and slips into a robe, rushing towards Furiosa. Conch leans forward, afraid there’s going to be a fight, but instead the women embrace like old friends.

When they join her outside the rig, Furiosa introduces the women: cage lady is called The Valkyrie, and with clothes on she gives off the air of a regal desert queen. There are older ladies too: Keeper of the Seeds and a group of biker matriarchs collectively referred to as The Vuvalini. White hair and clad in leather, the women find the omegas fascinating, examining their differently colored hair and healthy teeth. One of the old women touches his stomach, “Baby?” she asks, and he nods, smiling when her eyes sparkle.

All the women are alphas, but Conch isn’t threatened by them.

The Dag is taken with the Keeper of the Seeds, examining the contents of the old woman’s bag, which contains all the tools to start a new harvest once she finds fertile soil. While the Vuvalini welcome the omegas, they consider the male alphas warily until Furiosa vouches for him and Nux. Even then, they look unsure, but at least they don’t shoot them dead right then and there. Furiosa announces they’re on their way to the Green Place, but for some reason the women look distressed, exchanging hesitant looks until The Valkyrie speaks:

“But…if you came from the west, you passed the Green Place, sister.”

Cold fingers travel up his spine as he realizes what that means. There is no Green Place. The only thing they saw on their way was swamp land with strange men scaling through the marsh on tall wooden stilts. Might that have been what’s left of the fertile lands of Furiosa’s youth? No plants could grow in such a place. “The water turned stagnate,” Keeper of the Seeds explains, “We had to keep moving.”

Furiosa doesn’t listen to the rest. She staggers away from them and collapses into the sand, face twisted in agony as she screams, a terrible noise that steals the breath from Conch’s lungs. He covers his ears, bent at the waist until someone touches his back. It’s Toast and he buries his face against her shortly cropped hair. He can tell from the quaking of her shoulders that she’s crying, but is still strong enough to hold him.

The end of the road. There is no Green Place. There is no salvation for them. No where to hide from Immortan Joe.

“We’ll ride east. Maybe we can find healthy land somewhere along the way,” one of the Vuvalini suggests. “But not until tomorrow. You can make camp here tonight.”

They can’t outrun the Immortan forever, and the odds are stacked heavily against them. Chances are, they will run out of water and die in the desert, or be hunted down by the tyrant and taken back to the Citadel for their punishment. “We should go back,” Cheedo says, articulating a weak thought they have all experienced at least once during their journey. “Maybe if we go back and say we’re sorry, Immortan Joe will forgive us.”

The Dag sneers. “He’ll whip us for insolence. We’re not going back.” Keeper of Seeds nods gravely in agreement. Retreat is not an option.

Furiosa collects herself and returns to the group. “We’ll camp here. Just for the night. Then we drive.”

 

* * *

 

The alphas supply sand-colored tents that blend seamlessly into the surrounding dunes so that even if Immortan Joe and the War Boys drive by the camp, they probably won’t see them. Max sets up his tent apart from the group, though not so far away that he loses sight of the others. He’s not used to sleeping with a clan and the sound of murmuring and shifting bodies will keep him awake. He splays across the bedding, staring at the canvas fabric, and briefly entertaining the idea of sleeping outside so he can see the stars as has been his tradition all these years.

Rustling outside captures Max’s attention and he casually cocks his gun and aims it at the flaps as they part, revealing Arthur’s face. The sight is not a total surprise and he uncocks the pistol, setting it aside. They don’t speak, but rather stare at each other until Max sighs and beckons him inside. Much has been left unsaid between them, and Max knew the omega wouldn’t let this thing between them die without analysis. Something like fondness bubbles in his chest when Arthur looks pleased at the invitation and sits on the bedding beside him. 

Max sprawls on his back, arms folded behind his head. He’s aware Arthur is watching him, but he’s afraid to look back until the omega gives a little shiver. “Cold?” he asks, already knowing the answer. The desert freezes at night. Arthur nods with a shy smile, and Max slides out of his jacket, draping it across the omega’s shoulders. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles, wrapping the jacket around him and flashing another dimpled smile. Max grunts and lays back down. Silence follows and for a second he thinks maybe they’ll just sleep like this side-by-side, but suddenly Arthur speaks: “Why do you look at me that way?”

Max sighs, still afraid to look at the omega. He doesn’t want to talk about how Arthur reminds him of his dead mate — about how it’s his fault his wife and child were murdered by the War Boys — and now memories of them haunt his every waking moment. On the other hand, Arthur is here right now, and the longer he’s in the tent, the more Max doesn’t want him to go. He has to say something or the omega will assume he’s never going to explain what’s going on. 

“You look…like someone I knew,” he rasps.

Arthur leans closer to watch his face and Max winces. He hates how openly the omega looks at him, without judgment or fear. It makes Max feel raw and exposed. “Dead?” he asks and Max’s throat nearly closes, but he nods to answer. _Dead_. Stacked with the rest of the corpses and set ablaze by the howling War Boys. “I’m sorry,” Arthur says, gently cupping and turning his cheek so he has no choice but to gaze back at him. The omega’s hand is soft and lovely, his fingertips delicately tracing the stubble of his jaw.

Holding his breath, Max watches Arthur descend and tentatively kiss his mouth. It’s tender and amateurish in its timidity, but then it occurs to him that the omega has probably never kissed anyone before. Immortan Joe most certainly does not bother to waste time with such trivialities. The thought angers him, eyes slipping shut as he grips Arthur’s arms and surges up to properly kiss him, turning them so he can drape atop the youth.

His tongue parts the omega’s lips, coaxing a sweet, startled moan from him, and Max swallows the noise. Arthur squirms out of the jacket to wrap his arms around Max’s shoulders, a warm embrace that temporarily allows him to forget about all the death and violence. In the midst of such chaos, this singular moments feels good. Max can’t remember the last time he felt good, and he wants more, so he grips the sheet and pushes it up around Arthur’s waist. Without the chastity belt, he’s naked underneath, and Max grips between his thighs, stroking just under his sac where Arthur is already wet.

The omega gasps, spine arched and head tilted back. A tremble travels through his body and Max looks down where a small pool of moisture has wet the bedding. “Sorry…I didn’t…I never…” he pants, cheeks flushing a lovely shade of pink. He chuckles and runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair, pushing the fringe off his brow. Orgasms are foreign to him. Maybe he didn’t even get wet when he was with Immortan. The omega’s cock is rock hard and leaking against his stomach by the time Max unfastens his trousers and shoves them aside to press the head between Arthur’s gleaming cheeks.

The omega greets him enthusiastically, shapely pale legs wrapping around Max’s waist. He watches Arthur’s face on the first push, pausing when his brow furrows in a pained expression. “Hurts?” he grunts, voice surprisingly steady despite the frantic hammering of his heart. He’s partly worried Furiosa will hear them and drag him out by his dick. Arthur stubbornly shakes his head and he smirks, closing the few more inches until his hips are flush to the omega’s rear. It’s divine, a vise-like grip so tight that he feels Arthur’s heartbeat. Max’s jaw locks, refusing to release any wounded or pathetic noises. He can’t thrust yet or he’ll come.

Arthur’s breathing is already ragged, grip desperate as he seeks to strip Max of his clothing, nearly tearing his shirt in the process. He swears and swats at the omega’s hands. The clothing may be soiled, but it’s all he’s got. He grabs the fabric, pulling instead of tearing until his torso is bare and the omega can touch his skin. Max has to admit it’s much, much better with their naked, wet skin writhing together as he thrusts between the omega’s thighs.

A sob escapes Arthur’s throat, but the youth immediately sinks his teeth into Max’s shoulder to quiet himself. Sucking in a deep breath, he bows his head and ruts the omega, the wet push of his cock and slap of hips loud in the night. Surely, someone is going to hear them. One of the female alphas will catch him rutting an omega and castrate him right then and there. When Arthur reaches down and grips his bare ass, coherent thought sails from his skull, and Max thrusts with abandon.

“Oh..” Arthur gasps, eyes shut, and brow furrowed. Max kisses his agape lips, sucking out the hungry, desperate moans. He’s dizzy from the wetness and the scent that is so sweet it makes him hungry. Not hungry. The tightening disturbance is lower. Between his legs. He’s going to come. He hasn’t come in ages. Max knows he should pull out and spill his seed in the sand. What he should absolutely not do is spend himself inside Furiosa’s omega. Arthur kicks his flanks with his heels, like he’s a stubborn steed in need of taming. “Do it, do it,” he demands, arching and undulating his hips, demanding Max finish inside him.

He swears, bows his head, and pistons his hips until Arthur is quiet, biting his knuckles to stop from screaming. The omega shakes again as he comes and Max is not far behind, racing across the finish line with three ragged thrusts and a muffled, “Fuuuck,” the knot growing thick and heavy inside Arthur before he collapses atop the youth. The world goes dark until he feels Arthur stroking his hair, pressing tender kisses to his jaw and neck. When Max leans back, the dark eyes curiously watch him. “We shouldn’t have…” he mumbles, climbing off him to tuck away his soft cock and find the shirt. Arthur is a mess: sweaty, breathless, seed drying on his stomach, a puddle beneath the pert swell of his ass. Just looking at him makes Max wants to dive between his thighs and lick him clean.

The omega props up onto his elbows. “We wanted to, so why not?”

“Furiosa wouldn’t like it,” he mutters, yanking the shirt over his head.

He’s going to have to wake early and pack the tent before any of the female alphas get a whiff of the bedding. Otherwise, they’ll instantly know Max rutted an omega. Arthur tranquilly watches him in that insufferable way of his. “I look like your dead mate.”

Max heads snaps up and he stares at him. “Shut up,” he growls. He won’t let anyone talk about his family. Not even Arthur.

But the young man is loopy and determined post-coitus, leaning forward and running his fingertips along the nap of Max’s neck. “It’s okay if you like that I look like them,” he whispers.

He snarls, grabbing Arthur by the neck and pinning him to the bedding. _Enough_. Max bares his teeth and squeezes the omega’s throat to remind him of his place. “Shut _up_ ,” he repeats, shaking him a little. Just to make his point. Now that he’s tasted Arthur, he wants more, and if they had time, he would unfasten his pants again and shut him up that way, fucking him until the omega was too exhausted for interrogation. Infuriatingly, Arthur doesn’t look afraid. His beautiful eyes remain placid lakes of amber. Max grunts and releases him, gesturing to the flaps. “Go.” If Arthur stays, he’ll rut him again, and Furiosa will hear them.

Arthur doesn’t fight him this time, instead using the sheet to tidy up, and then straightens it around his waist. He shouldn’t look, but he does when Arthur bends over and exits the tent, his rear a tempting peach beneath the white fabric. Max feels miserable by the time Arthur turns to poke his dark head into the tent again. He sighs, almost a pitying noise, as he considers the alpha. “Don’t hate yourself forever. You deserve something nice and shiny.”

It takes him a second to realize the omega is teasing him. He smirks, shaking his head. “You don’t want a life with me, beauty.”

Arthur flashes his dimples. “Yes, I do.”

 

* * *

 

The plan is to escort the females east, across the most brutal desert planes where there are not even dunes to provide shade and protection from the wind and sun. The earth is so desolate and parched that it splits into dusty scales, stretched before them in cruel, unending miles. The War Rig is low on fuel and on her structural last legs, so they take bikes as a backup mode of transportation. Furiosa pauses at one point, and climbs from the rig so she can consult with some of the other females about navigation. 

Max stays out of the debate, not wanting to overstep his place with the clan (one of them, but not one of them). He examines the handle bar of his bike, then pretends the speedometer is terribly interesting and worthy of his attention. When he looks up, all the females plus Conch are still speaking or listening to the speakers. Only Arthur looks away from the group, directly at him. He sighs, slightly annoyed the omega is being so overt. _A little discretion, please, my beauty._ The youth’s mouth curls slightly, a blossoming smirk. _Dammit_. Max rolls his eyes and smirks, looking away as if terribly annoyed at the display, but the warmth spreading across his neck is a warning.

Heat waves emanate on the horizon and Max knows only death resides in the east. A few days ago, he wouldn’t have minded that certainty because it might have meant reuniting with his mate and child. But Arthur has now complicated his life. Death no longer holds the same allure. It doesn’t escape his attention when Capable also glances away from the group, towards a bike where Nux straddles the seat, anxiously staring back at her. Maybe they all found a new purpose out in the desert. Maybe they shouldn’t be in such a rush to die.

Max kicks down the stand and climbs off his bike, approaching the group. The females stop talking and eye him suspiciously, but Max has an idea and he wants to share it with Furiosa. He proposes they return to the Citadel, which is chock full of water and supplies. Immortan Joe is an aging alpha, most of his soldiers are children, and their resources are dangerously low. He’s vulnerable. Highly susceptible to attack.

Furiosa first looks at him like he’s lost his mind, then deflates momentarily in a moment of fatigue that he understands. It will mean backtracking, undoing all the progress (if it can be called that) they’ve made, and for what? More fighting. More bloodshed. But also a glimmer of hope on the horizon. He glances at Arthur, the warmth spreading to the rest of his face when he sees a proud gleam in the omega’s eyes. He offers his hand to Furiosa.

She stares at his hand, sighs, and claps their hands together. Until the end of the road.

 

* * *

 

The plan is for Furiosa to drive back through the canyon with the Vuvalini riding as support, luring Immortan and his dwindling band of War Boys into a final showdown. Max volunteers his bike back to one of the women so he can ride inside the War Rig because he wants to lend Furiosa a hand, but also because Arthur is riding inside the truck and he wants to be able to protect him if need be. The omega’s face expresses that he suspected as much the moment Max lays eyes on him. He smirks, watching Arthur’s grinning face disappear into the hatch. Furiosa catches him looking and quirks an unimpressed brow that instantly sobers him and Max squints into the summer sun. “Good day for a fight,” he remarks.

“Oh yeah, but be careful, all types of pretty distractions.”

Max face resentfully burns as Furiosa chuckles.

If nothing else, Immortan Joe, like most alphas, is predictable. He is murderously angry over Furiosa’s betrayal, and considers the omegas (and their babies) his property, so he will secure them by any means necessary, including following them into the narrow space of the canyon. Nux rides on the back of the rig, howling when he catches sight of his former brothers. “They came for a fight!” he cries, cackling when the men open fire. Max hums and leans out the window, returning fire. Soon enough, the hatch flies open and the omegas scramble out, choking on the War Rig’s fumes, and this time Furiosa doesn’t chastise them. Max stops shooting long enough to look back at Arthur, just to make sure he’s all right, and then focuses on the war cars zipping at their flank. Pole-cats wave through the air, zipping close to the War Rig to toss grenades and smoke bombs inside as the omegas screech in fear. He and Furiosa take turns fielding the intrusions, tossing them back into the air or into nearby war cars to detonate.

The pole-cats dip closer and closer to the rig until Arthur suddenly cries out, and before Max understands what’s happening, he looks up to see the white linen of the omega’s tunic fluttering in the wind. “Max!” he screams, desperately reaching for him, but it’s too late. The pole-cat delivers him into Immortan Joe’s vehicle.

“I’m going!” Max barks, jumping out of the War Rig before Furiosa can stop him. 

Immortan pulls in front of the rig, slowing down, trying to force them to a stop. He leaps onto the elevated bed where the tyrant’s beast of a son, Rictus Erectus, waits. The alpha is a mountain, towering over Max as he cries, “You killed my brother! My baby brother! He was perfect in every way!” Max’s brain plays tricks on him again, supplying a movie of Splendid slipping off the rig and disappearing under the wheels of Immortan Joe’s car. He comes back to reality just in time to duck out of the way of a fist the size of a small boulder. Rictus swings again, this time punching Max square in the gut and he stumbles backwards, collapsing to his knee, sputtering and coughing. He’s close enough to the car to see through the window. Arthur is trying to shove Immortan’s hand away, his sticky paw drifting between the omega’s legs. Glass is thick, engine loud, and still he hears the tyrant’s voice: “My dark philly. How I missed you.”

Anger surges through him and Max charges the mountain, bellowing as he tackles Immortan’s son, who shouts in surprise. He’s no match for the alpha, but the goal is to distract him as Furiosa runs past them and leaps into Immortan Joe’s car. They roll across the bed, exchanging punches, and he looks up just in time to see Furiosa wrap the chord of Immortan’s oxygen mask around the wheels, tearing it (and half the warlord’s face) off. A trail of blood sprays across the sand and everyone freezes, staring in disbelief at the dead king.

“You killed him!” Rictus screams, charging the rig and leaping onto the side. Perhaps he means to destroy Furiosa’s vehicle then hunt them down one-by-one and murder them in the desert.

“He killed the world!” Max looks up and sees one of the Vuvalini driving a vehicle hijacked from a War Boy. Capable’s red head sticks out of the car where the rest of the omegas stare through windows. Max looks back and sees Nux driving the rig. The young man is wide-eyed, filled with purpose, and Max understands what he plans to do. 

“Drive!” he shouts to Furiosa, who shoves aside Immortan’s corpse just enough to commandeer the car. They surge ahead of the other car, which slows down, nearing the rig, perhaps hoping to pick up Nux, but Max already knows the young man has chosen another way. Capable’s eyes are wet as she watches him, and the youth looks calm when he calls to her: _Witness_.

They speed out of the canyon just as Nux jerks the wheel sideways, flipping the rig into a fireball that consumes him, Immortan Joe’s only healthy legacy, and the evidence of the great canyon battle.

 

* * *

 

The Dag sobs, clutching the bag to her chest. The Keeper of Seeds fought bravely, but died in the battle along with The Valkyrie and many sisters, but before she died the Keeper entrusted her mission with the omega. “She chose you ‘cause you’re special,” Conch notes and Toast nods in agreement. The Dag sniffles, popping open the bag to eye its contents: all the ingredients to begin the world again.

“I’m gonna make her proud-like,” she whispers.

Capable is quiet in the back seat, staring straight ahead, face carved with silent tears.

Cheedo’s dark hair whips in the wind, serious as she gazes in the mirror and watches Furiosa slow Immortan Joe’s car until it stops completely. “Stop the car. Something’s wrong.”

 

* * *

 

Furiosa’s been stabbed and she’s bleeding profusely. It’s bad, bad enough that she’ll probably die, and Max has no idea how she fought like she did with such an injury. “Stubborn old bird,” he jokes, flashing a weak smile, and to his great surprise, the alpha laughs. Arthur knows how to dress wounds and he does the best he can with their minimal supplies, but ultimately shakes his head, looking pointedly (and gravely) at Max. 

Furiosa is going to die unless drastic measures are taken.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Get a line,” he mutters, rolling up his sleeve, and they press a needle into his wrist, the other end into Furiosa’s flesh, and for the second time in a week Max gives his blood. But this time, he’s glad for it. He sits beside the warrior, watching her eyes slip shut, and strokes the oil-slicked brow to keep her conscious. “Max,” he whispers, “That’s my name.”

 

* * *

 

They pull a sheet off Immortan Joe’s corpse, revealing his dead body to the starving masses and the War Boys high above in the Citadel. The crowd erupts in cheers and Max stares up at the balcony until the boys lower the platform for the omegas and Furiosa to board. Arthur lingers at his side, gazing at Max’s profile, but he’s afraid to look at the young man. Arthur will be safe in the Citadel, but he knows the omega wants to stay with him. “You go with your sisters and brother,” he says, attempting a casual approach. By the time he looks at Arthur, the omega has leveled an unimpressed look at him. “Go on now,” Max adds, a bit firmer.

“I’m no War Boy. Don’t bark at me,” Arthur replies, chin lifted. He’s so beautiful Max has to look away. Unfortunately, his gaze pivots right to Furiosa, who smirks at him as though she knows exactly what’s happening. Smug, even though the alpha is weak, her arm draped across Conch’s shoulders for support.

“What did I say about…all the pretty distractions?” she calls, wheezing for breath.

Max smirks thinly.

“Larrikin?” Conch calls, frowning in concern, and for the first time the omega looks uncertain about his decision.

He hurries to the platform, tilting Conch’s forehead against his own. “I gotta. I told you. It’s like in my dream.”

Conch’s eyes are wet when he glances at Max. “He’s the one?” When Arthur nods, the omega’s brow wrinkles in consideration before he nods slowly. “Then you best go now, before the sun sets.” Arthur kisses his cheek, and the cheek of each sister. He saves Furiosa for last, who pulls him close with her metallic arm and whispers into his ear. He nods and steps back, the gears above whirring as they’re pulled upwards by the War Boys.

Max warily watches Arthur approach. “Not too late. You can join them.”

The omega shakes his head, eyes sparkling with all types of brilliant mischief. “Let’s go, Max.”

They weave through the crowd, and he looks back one last time to the balcony where the omegas stand, and Furiosa in the middle, gazing down — not at the crowd — but specifically at him. _You and I are the same,_ he thinks, but doesn’t know how to express it, or say thank you, so he simply nods. 

A sign of respect. It’s enough.

 

* * *

 

They get Arthur real clothes: undergarments, a shirt, slacks, socks, boots, and a leather jacket that is nicer than Max’s, but worth it because he looks beautiful and strong wearing it. He barters with some boys at Gas Town for two motorcycles, and Max makes some adjustments to the engines before they head out. Where, he’s not sure. Somewhere in the west, maybe. Perhaps there’s a green patch somewhere in the wasteland. 

He’s crouched, turning a wrench, when he looks up and sees Arthur watching him. “What dream?” he asks, referring to a conversation between him and Conch from days ago, but judging by the smile stretched across the omega’s face, Arthur knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“I’m walking in the desert, lost, for a long time. It’s dark. The sand is wet beneath my feet. I’m terrified…” he sighs, gazing out at the land, back in the direction of the Citadel, “And then I hear panting and something soft touches my fingertips. It’s a wolf’s head.” 

Max stops turning the wrench and stares at him. “Am I the wolf?”

Arthur’s smiles is white and brilliant. “Would you feel better if I told you it’s an alpha wolf?” Max grunts noncommittally. “I follow him, and as we walk together, the sun finally rises.”

He shakes his head, putting away the wrench and straddling the bike to kick his heel and start the engine. Max has learned never to discount the power of dreams. He turns off the bike, not ready to depart just yet. After all, for once no one is chasing them, and he has unfinished business with a certain omega. “What did Furiosa say to you?”

Arthur bites his lips, pretending like he might not tell Max the truth, wandering close to his bike. The alpha watches him, hypnotized by the display, not for the first time reminded that omegas possess a power as equal, if very different, than alphas. Arthur pauses beside him, his touch tender in his hair, fingers running through the stands. All at once, Max feels a wave of serenity wash over him, something he has not felt in many years. The omega’s lips are soft on his brow as he whispers: “She said I am not built to bear warlords.”

His eyelids are heavy, nearly shutting. He could sleep right here for many days, as long as Arthur stays with him. “What are you built for?”

The hand slides around, palms cupping his cheeks. “Your children,” he replies, leaning down to kiss him, pillowy lips coaxing a sigh from Max’s mouth. Furiosa knew exactly what she was doing by allowing Arthur to go with him. They will build a clan in the west as Furiosa and the omegas repopulate the Citadel. Perhaps one day in the future they will meet again, and together the two clans will rebuild the world.

Maybe the other alpha knew Max was falling in love the whole time. She probably knew about their night in the tent. She might have known from the first moment Max laid eyes upon Arthur.

He smirks, shaking his head as he watches Arthur walk to his bike and straddle it, revving the engine with a firm thrust of his boot heel. “Who follows who?” he cries over the engine.

The alpha laughs, shaking his head because the answer is so obvious, hanging bright and enormous like the sun. _I’ll follow you, my beauty_. Arthur grins, reading his mind ( _because omegas can do that, y’know_ ) and zips off into the west, the loyal alpha chasing at his heels.


	2. Everything That Burns, Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new village and Arthur's pregnancy

Not running is new. Not running means rest, a camp, time to talk. Max doesn’t remember how to talk, so he listens. Arthur knows family, knows talking, is the owner of smarts given to him by the other wives and Ms. Giddy, one of the desert’s last historians, who taught him and the other omega brides how to read all about the dead world. Arthur talks about Ms. Giddy, and how Immortan Joe shot her dead when he learned of her betrayal; about all the books he read while a prisoner in Joe’s vault.

They’ve pitched a tent between the dunes, a temporary home until Max figures out where they’re going. He strips out of jacket and shirt and turns so Arthur can see his back. Max can’t read, but he knows the War Boys were tatting words into his flesh. He wants to know what they say. Arthur sits up and squints in the darkness, tracing the scars with his fingertips. The spike of pain is followed by soothing coolness, Arthur’s uncalloused fingertips gentle as he sounds out the words. 

“Two good eyes…piss OK…genitals intact,” Arthur pauses and when Max glances over his shoulder, he’s got his secret smile on, “We know that, hm?” Max smirks, grunting to show he wants him to continue. “O-negative high-octane, universal donor, lone road warrior. Psychotic. Muzzled.” Max snorts. He _was_ psychotic when the War Boys took him. He tried to maul their faces with his teeth. That’s enough. Max reaches for the shirt to show he doesn’t want Arthur to read anymore. The tattoo is unsurprising: an itemized checklist for the resources of Max’s body and his car, both scrap materials in the eyes of Immortan Joe: dead, dead, dead.

Good riddance. Death to all tyrants.

He wiggles back into the shirt and pulls on his jacket. Ears are ringing again and Max opens and closes his jaw, hoping to make em pop, but the ringing stays. He looks over and Arthur is watching him, waiting. Must have said something, asked a question, and Max didn’t hear. That’s been happening. Too many explosions, too much exposure to the noisy growl of their motorcycles. Max grunts, annoyed and embarrassed, but Arthur simply repeats himself, louder: “Let’s sleep outside.”

So they do. Bedding spread across sand, Arthur’s head on his chest, fingertips tapping out a piano song. Max doesn’t know what the music sounds like, but wagers it’s beautiful. Arthur is humming. It sounds far away, but Max feels the vibrations, and they lull him into something like peace. His body aches, but he has Arthur, and that’s all that matters. 

Arthur teaches him about the constellations, relaying information given to him by Ms. Giddy: Orion, Ursa Major and Minor, Sirius. “Whole universe is made up of the same stuff. What’s in us is in the stars.”

Max thinks of the War Boy’s branding. He doesn’t like to think of the universe just being made up of stuff waiting to be turned into other stuff. He’s not a blood bag. He’s not a star. He’s Max and Arthur is Arthur. He must make an unhappy noise because Arthur looks up and shows his dimples.

“Hope is not a mistake,” he says and Max can’t answer so he leans down to kiss the omega’s brow.

 _No more talk, beauty_.

Arthur understands and hushes so they can sleep.

 

* * *

 

Every day, they ride further west, searching for something—anything—some sign of hope. There’s nothing. Just salt, as Max feared. Both of them know they won’t be able to continue much further. They’ll run out of fuel eventually, but Arthur insists they keep going _just a few more days_. There has to be something, he says, and Max doesn’t have the heart to tell him that’s not true. The world is big, with plenty of room for more nothingness.

He’s humoring the journey for now, silently making calculations about distance and fuel supply. He’ll play along until it’s a suicide mission, and then he’ll throw the omega over his shoulder and take him back to the Citadel if need be. Furiosa will take them in. She’ll give them shelter. Her orders were to ride west and begin a tribe, flourish, set up a permanent ally for her to call upon, but surely she won’t turn them away if they report there’s no way to survive past the end of the road.

The sun sinks and they stop to make camp, bone tired from riding all day, bodies still humming and vibrating as they lay together in the tent. He isn’t the only one with memories of the past burnt into his flesh. Stripped naked, Arthur watches him trace the brand on his hip: a skull, surrounded by flames. Immortan’s insignia. “I hate it,” Arthur whispers, a tear slipping down his cheek, “Cut if off. Burn it. Anything. It’s ugly.”

 _Nothing about you could be ugly._ Max makes a soft, comforting noise and brushes his cheek, cradling the side of the omega’s face. He can’t bear to see his mate hurt, but Max doesn’t think he can cause him pain—even to remove the lingering evidence of Joe. But Arthur is persistent, bordering on begging, so finally he agrees. Max rummages in a bag of spare motorcycle parts until he locates a small peg. He returns to the tent and shows it to Arthur, positioning the bit over the omega’s branding. It’s the shape of a crude M. “For Max,” he explains. Arthur immediately seizes on the idea, so Max builds a fire outside and heats the peg on the end of a stick. “Will hurt,” he reminds Arthur, who is stretched out on some bedding, naked in the moonlight.

“I’ve had worse,” he remarks casually, but Max hates the words because he knows they’re true. The metal glows orange and red, and Max eases the peg over to Arthur, careful not to drop it, again asking if he’s sure. “Just do it,” Arthur spits, annoyed, probably scared too. He’s breathing hard, staring up at the sky. Max positions the hissing metal directly over the skull, the flames. “Please, Max,” Arthur whispers.

Metal smokes against skin, melting the flesh, and Arthur screams.

 

* * *

 

They stay at the camp longer than usual so Arthur can heal, and Max is secretly happy because he’s sick of riding across desert. The omega is ridiculously pleased with the outcome, beaming as he wears his trousers low to show the branding’s progress: an angry, red M, but no skull and fire, which is the important part. “Now I’m yours,” Arthur declares, sweet and warm in Max’s arms.

He reaches down and grips Arthur’s rear and the omega smirks, pulling him into the tent.

There are no War Boys hunting the horizon these days, no roving bands to contend with, so they can be passionate and noisy, and Max is pleased to discover Arthur is quite vocal and enthusiastic when he’s not worrying about Furiosa wringing both their necks. He’s a demanding little thing, yanking and pulling until they’re both naked, and reverently touches Max’s shoulders and arms. He’s thought about his body in utilitarian terms for so long that Max has forgotten what it’s like to be looked at by a lover—a mate—someone who thinks his body is beautiful and not just meat and blood to be harvested.

“My warrior,” Arthur sighs, lovely and supple, whimpering into Max’s mouth. They kiss for ages, the alpha writhing between Arthur’s thighs until he’s breathing hard and wetting the bedding. Max wants to see him from behind while they rut (Arthur has a spectacular rear,) so he leans back, grips the narrow waist, and flips him over. He laughs when Arthur flails, at first believing they’re playing a game, pinning the omega’s wrists and biting the back of his neck, realizing too late that Arthur isn’t moaning, but rather growling.

“What—“ Max never finishes the thought because suddenly Arthur whips around and _slaps him_. He’s so surprised that he topples over, shouting in outrage, “Hey!”, gripping Arthur’s swinging arms and pinning him while growling, “Be still!” and shaking the omega in an attempt to snap him out of the fit.

His eyes are far away, but eventually Arthur’s cheeks flush when he returns to his body and remembers where they are. “Oh…” the omega sighs, voice trembling, covering his face. Humiliated. The anger rushes out of Max, replaced by sickening fear. He pries away the hands and cups Arthur’s face. _What devil got you_? “I’m sorry. Please don’t…Immortan. He preferred me that way.”

How can he still feel so much anger over a dead man? Half of Immortan’s face rests in the desert, buzzard food, and still he hates. Max thinks he may hate him forever. “We won’t,” he promises, kissing Arthur, and again, and they fall back into it: touching, writhing, Arthur wet and open. This way is better. When he pushes inside, Max can see (and feel) Arthur gasp, can swallow the soft simpers escaping his throat. This way, Arthur can wrap his legs around Max’s waist, and dig his fingertips into the still-sore scars of his back. Bucking atop Arthur, he can see his eyes—an amber sunrise—and pin the wrists above his head; maul his neck, feel their bellies slide together, Arthur’s cock leaking warm, wet trails.

He sleeps like the dead, knotted with the omega, snoring into Arthur’s soft locks.

 

* * *

 

Max is stuck. His boots are caught in some kind of muck. Must be quicksand because now his ankles are gone too and it seems like the shins are next. Engines roar on the horizon, and when he looks up, the War Boys tear screaming over the horizon. They’re beelining towards huts where Max knows his family is asleep. Or were asleep. The noise probably woke them. A woman, his wife, sprints from a hut, carrying a small bundle that he knows is their daughter.

The huts are on fire. The War Boys run through the village, grabbing omegas, raping and cutting their throats. No matter how hard Max pulls, he can’t free himself from the quicksand. He can’t help. 

Nux squats by him and offers a toothy smile: “Everything that burns, burns.”

The world ends in front of his eyes. He opens his mouth to scream and an engine roars.

 

* * *

 

“Max, shh. _Max_.” Arthur’s worried face. He’s burning hot, sweating buckets. Where are they? Tent. Desert. The years slide back into place. The world rights itself. “Bad dream,” Arthur summarizes, stroking his brow with mercifully cool fingertips. The omega leans down and kisses his brow. “I have ‘em too. About Immortan. I’m stuck in a room with no door and no windows, and I feel him coming for me.”

Breathing steadies as he listens. Maybe everyone has the bad dreams. Everyone left in the world.

Fingers rake through his hair. The strands are soaked. He’s too hot. Max gently pushes Arthur away and leaves the tent. Outside, the air is frigid, but it feels good. He sucks in desperate breaths and considers the black landscape. No War Boys anymore, but there will be others. There are always others. In this world, badness is around every corner. Furiosa has maintained peace so far, but how long can that last? Arthur will want to ride tomorrow, and Max will follow, but tomorrow will be the last day they ride blindly into the desert. 

“Max…” He looks back and Arthur is kneeling inside the tent, peeking out, wrapped in some bedding. Only then does he realize he’s walked outside nude. He grunts and trudges back, smirking at Arthur’s greeting: “Crazy man. Come to bed.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur signals to him. It’s easier than shouting over the engines (and Max can’t hear him half the time anyway). Five fingers on one hand, four on the other. Nine. Meaning ninety kilometers. That’s how far Arthur wants to ride before they rest again. Max gives a thumbs up and they’re off. He rides just behind the omega, his preferred position so he can see everything that’s happening, including if his mate needs help. Not that he’s needed him yet. Arthur is a very good rider, which briefly amazed Max until the omega explained all the people of his old tribe knew how to ride motorcycles and drive cars.

The omega signals, spinning a hand over his head like a propeller. _Speed up_. Max smirks and revs the engine, pulling up beside him. They don’t wear head gear, so he can see Arthur smiling, glancing his way, a challenge in his gaze. _You’re on, beauty_. They race the rest of the way, until Arthur decides it’s been far enough. He’s just slowing down when something white gleams on the horizon to their left. When Max looks over, his heart almost stops. _Water_. It’s not an oasis. It’s really there. Arthur tears off towards it before Max can shout and he follows close behind. 

The pond is small but deep. More than a puddle. Not quite a lake. There’s a patch of grass connected to it, mostly yellow, but with glimmers of green. Something is growing from the dirt. It looks like a wild mushroom. Arthur is so excited he doesn’t use his kickstand once he cuts the enginge and the motorcycle thuds to the earth. Normally, Max would chew him out for endangering their equipment like that, but he’s willing to make an exception given the circumstances. He switches off the bike and climbs off, watching as Arthur strips out of his clothes and dives in. Deep enough to dive. He loses sight of the omega. _Deep enough for Arthur to swim_. Max runs over to the water and falls to his knees and plunges hands into the cool liquid, gulping it down. It’s good. Not stagnant. Cold.

Max doesn’t remember how to pray, though feels like he should. He ought to thank someone.

He closes his eyes and for some reason sees Furiosa’s face. Max opens his eyes again.

Arthur’s smiling face breaks through the surface and he loudly whoops. “Quiet,” Max growls. They have to keep this place secret. At least for now. At least until they begin a tribe. The reminder of their mission lands heavily upon his shoulders and Max suddenly feels sick. He remembers the dream about quicksand, sinking, Nux’s words: _everything that burns, burns_.

His harsh words have done nothing to spoil Arthur’s happy mood. The omega swims languidly, flipping onto his back, pale stomach warming in the sun. “Come swim, my warrior.” The words make his face blush. _Bloody Arthur._ They have so much to do. They’ll need to build huts. Figure out how to irrigate crops. One of them will need to return to the Citadel to inform Furiosa about their discovery. The Dag will need to visit with her seeds. He should feel annoyed at Arthur’s lazy attitude, but he can’t be anything but grateful. Max strips and wades in, grumbling about how cold it is, sourness leaving when Arthur swims up to him like a sea siren from one of Ms. Giddy’s stories. He walks forward until only his chin is above the water and Arthur wraps his legs around Max’s waist, then arms, kissing him wetly on the lips. “Let’s bless our home,” he whispers, reaching down to grip Max’s cock. He grunts and swats away the hand, but only half-heartedly. Once the omega lays hands on him, he’s done for. It’s something of a natural law. 

Max thrusts into him, the omega barking in surprise, fingertips digging into his shoulders. As if this whole thing wasn’t his idea. “Ah!” he cries, throwing back his head, flesh beautiful and gleaming in the sunlight. Max thrusts, snorting with exertion. He’s never fucked in water before, but it’s no easy task, his thrusts slowed by the pressure. Arthur seems to be enjoying himself, wailing, ignoring Max’s commands to be silent. He walks them back up the bank and lands heavily on the sand, Arthur pinned beneath him. They settle with a thud, Arthur grunting, but still kicking stubbornly at the backs of Max’s thighs, demanding the rut.

He grips the omega’s jaw, keeping his mouth shut, and fucks him soundly, Arthur growling and licking greedily at his hand, biting the hand’s soft webbing. When they’re this close, Max can read Arthur’s lips: “Fuck me,” he commands. Max forgets himself, where they are, bows his head and shows his strength. Hips clap violently, rigid cock plundering Arthur’s wetness. _Water, water, everywhere_. The edges of his vision darken, the pinpoint of light Arthur’s face, eyes rolled back, a desperate keen tearing from his throat as he comes.

They sleep on the bank, Max pressed to his back, stroking his stomach. The water laps gently at their toes. “We’ll live here and raise the pups,” Arthur observes. He’d been lazily stroking the omega’s stomach, but his fingers stop roaming when he processes the words. Of course, this has been the plan all along. Locate fertile grounds, build a village, raise a tribe. But the nightmare has shaken Max. He’s not sure he wants to start over again. What if the baby dies? What if Arthur dies? Max will not be able to maintain a grasp on the precious few fragments of his sanity.

 

* * *

 

It’s become very clear that Arthur does not share his time management skills. Max is struggling to construct the skeleton of a hut out of scraps of wood he’s collected from the area, and Arthur is sprawled out on the bank, sunbathing. _Lazy bloody omega bride_. Arthur is used to servants bringing him things. The maddening thing is, when he puts his mind to something, Arthur always out-thinks and out-works Max. He just prefers to laze about, and Max forgets to be mad about it whenever Arthur strips out of his clothing (as he is wont to do) and parades around.

He’s sweating and grunting his way through construction when a shadow falls over the sand. “Helping?” he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. Arthur, as usual, ignores the slight and runs his fingers through Max’s hair. It’s grown longer during their months in the desert, now prone to falling across his eyes and getting in the way while he works.

“I can cut it,” he offers. Max shoos him away, grunts, and gestures at the pieces of wood. He needs to build them shelter first. Arthur’s priorities are bloody confusing. “It’ll only take a little bit. Then I’ll help.”

The promise secures his attention, and Max squints up at him, frowning and grunts once to show agreement.

 

* * *

 

He sits on the bank and watches Arthur sashay back from the bikes, swinging a knife through the air. The omega makes a show of it, spinning the blade capably through the air, adding fancy flourishes. He knows how to use it and Max’s brows arch, impressed.

“My father taught me,” he explains, standing behind Max and unceremoniously beginning the process of lopping off long strands. The brown hair rains down around him and Max picks up a tuft, running the hair across his fingertips. “We were farmers, but everyone was taught how to fight, even the omegas. I was promised to an alpha in our village. Our best fighter.”

Max grunts, unhappy with where this story is headed. He doesn’t want to think about Arthur with another alpha. “Farmers fight?”

The knife sheers close to his skull, cutting the hair short. Perfect for the hot climate. He begrudgingly (and silently) admits Arthur is right. It will be good for building if he doesn’t get too hot while working. 

“Oh yeah. You know alphas. Always fighting. He was the best fighter in my village, but no match for the War Boys.” Arthur is quiet for a bit, making sure both sides of Max’s skull have been trimmed to an equal length. He reaches down and runs his fingers through Max’s beard. “I like this. We’ll keep it, hm?” His face warms and he swats away Arthur’s hand, knowing where this is leading. All it takes is the omega touching his face or hair, and suddenly they’re rutting like animals. _Bloody omegas_. “It’s red,” Arthur chuckles approvingly.

Max frowns. He hasn’t seen his reflection in a while, but the fact that he has a red beard is news to him. “Sign of the devil,” he notes, repeating an old wives’ tale. 

Arthur wrinkles his nose. “There was only one devil, and he’s dead.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur finds long, narrow strips of wood and shows Max how to bend them so the top of the hut will be dome-shaped and they won’t have to stoop over inside. “Like the vault,” he explains, voice light, but Max notices the shadows that fall across his face. It’s a good idea, and Max tells him so, which pulls him from the dark place and he flashes a smile. The omega proposes insulating their homes with a mix of clay (which will provide coolness in the day and trap in warmth at night), and palm leafs and grass blades for the roof. The leafs are hard to find and require trekking far into the desert, but they eventually collect enough items to construct a rough kind of roof for the hut. It takes days, but the final product is sturdy. Max can stand upright inside and still have space above his head, and the “floor” is wide with plenty of room for bedding.

He’s aware of Arthur lingering nearby, and there’s an odd energy about him, as though he wants to say something, but doesn’t quite have the nerve. The behavior raises Max’s hackles, so he immerses himself in work, making sure the hut is anchored deep into the earth so the wind won’t overturn it. “Max…” Arthur softly begins, but he ignores the omega. He’s half-deaf, after all. Maybe his mate will assume he didn’t hear him. Whatever it is, Max doesn’t want to talk about it because Arthur is nervous and that is always a bad sign. Gentle fingers grip his shoulder and Max sighs, setting down the boot—his boot—he’s been using as a hammer to smash the pegs into the ground. When he looks up, Arthur’s big eyes plead and he stands with a sigh to face him. The omega fidgets, fingers lacing, unlacing, wiggling nervously at his sides before he blurts: “I’m pregnant.”

Max stares at him for a long, hard moment, and it’s clearly not the reaction Arthur was hoping for because he stares back, brow furrowed, and suddenly the hut is too small—the air too stale, and Max pushes past him to walk outside. He wants to walk to the bike, climb on, and leave, so he does while wearing only one boot, ignoring Arthur’s cries at his back. He doesn’t go far. Just until the hut and lake are a dot and glimmer on the horizon. Then he stops, climbs off the bike, and lets it fall heavy to the ground. He stumbles a few steps, falls to his knees, and screams. It feels good, so he keeps screaming until his voice gives out and is nothing more than a dry wheeze. Then Max cries silently, shoulders violently shaking, dirty palms streaked from the moisture, smearing against his face as he cradles it. He falls to the dust and lays there, letting the sun burn his skin.

He cannot have children. He cannot bring another child into this world. It was foolish to agree to this arrangement. What will the child eat? What future could he possibly provide? He’ll have to talk Arthur into aborting the baby. There are ways. He saw omegas do it before, to prevent another suffering soul from entering the world. In his old village, there was a woman who knew a special blend of berries to eat that would cause miscarriages. Maybe he can find the berries.

Small hands touch his face and when Max opens his eyes, a girl’s face fills his vision. “You look spooky,” his daughter says. He sniffs and rolls onto his back, calmly considering the hallucination. This is, by far, the most realistic one. She looks real. Exactly as she looked before the War Boys butchered her. Wild, dark locks, wide amber eyes. “I like this place.”

“Can’t stay,” he murmurs, shaking his head until little hands steady his face. She strokes his hair and Max begins to cry again. When will his brain stop tormenting him? 

“I’ll come back as the baby.”

He doesn’t believe in reincarnation. Well, that’s not exactly true. Max doesn’t believe in anything, so he believes in everything equally. Reincarnation is not any more or any less absurd than the idea of a heaven, or gods that live on mountaintops or under the water. “Leave me be.” 

“Can’t. You gotta let me go.” She lays down beside him and curls into a ball, tiny fist jammed under her chin so they’re eye level. Max wonders if that’s how he looks—not a man, but a little boy throwing a fit. He reaches and tucks a dirty curl behind her ear. She always hated bathing. Preferred scrapping. A real alpha, through-and-through. He doesn’t know how to let her go. His wife’s memory is tucked away in his heart, but for some reason, the mind keeps dredging up memories of his daughter.

“How?” he moans, “How? _How_?” Max covers his eyes, rubbing them with the heels of his palms. Eyes open again to nothing but sand. She’s gone, without answering. He grunts, pushing up onto his elbows to look around. Sunlight reflects off the water and he jumps up. _Arthur_. The magnitude of his decision slams into him. Arthur is pregnant and he left him. “Stupid, stupid,” he growls, righting the bike and climbing onto it. He speeds back to camp, just in time to see a furious Arthur packing his bike. He’s collected his bedding and gear and glares daggers at Max as he pulls up.

“I’m going to the Citadel!” he shouts, plenty loud so Max hears. “ _Furiosa_ won’t abandon a pregnant omega,” he adds, rubbing salt in the wound.

“Arthur, _wait_ ,” Max begs, kicking down the stand and jumping off to sprint over to the omega’s bike. There’s a kill switch on the side that Arthur doesn’t know about, and he disables the bike before he can pull away.

The omega snarls. “Turn it back on.” Max shakes his head, so Arthur scrambles off the bike and tackles him, which Max was not expecting, and he goes down hard on his shoulder. Max shouts and rolls them, mindful not to crush Arthur’s stomach. He doesn’t know much about biology, but he doesn’t want to risk hurting the baby. 

“ _Stop_ ,” he grunts, pinning his mate as best he can, but not before Arthur throws a knee into his testicles. A pathetic, wheezing noise escapes his throat. “Fuck, _stop_.” 

Arthur lays beneath him, breathing heavy, like after one of their ruts, but this time Max’s loins ache for a very different reason. He has to explain, but doesn’t have the words. Before the world fell, Max never talked about his feelings, but he’s since lost all the tools to do so even if he wanted to, as he does right now. Arthur will leave if doesn’t say what’s in his heart, but Max doesn’t know how to explain that the omega is asking the impossible of him. 

“My daughter…I see her.” Arthur stills, dark hair surrounded by a halo of sand. His gaze searches the alpha’s face. Max sees her all the time: running on the horizon, playing, sometimes riding on the back of Arthur’s bike, facing Max, smiling and waving. The hallucinations mean he’s crazy, so Max never told anyone about them. He just quietly accepted he’s gone mad. “She, um…The War Boys got her.” Arthur knows that. Tell him the rest. _Spit it out, dammit._ “I can’t lose—” The words don’t come and he bows his head, swearing under breath. Arthur’s wrists wriggle free and he cups Max’s face, encouraging him to finish: “Can’t do it again. Can’t watch you die. Can’t watch a baby die.”

“Oh, Max,” Arthur sighs, impossibly tender, and he shuts his eyes because he can’t bear to look at the omega right now. Their foreheads touch, and for a merciful moment, Arthur doesn’t struggle or demand anything of him. They’re quiet, the same poisonous thought ricocheting around his skull: _hope is a mistake. It is always, always a mistake_. Immortan is dead, but there will be another alpha behind him, power-hungry, dangerous, and he will come for Max’s family and destroy everything. The bond transfers Max’s thoughts into Arthur’s head. “Who would come for me?” he asks, a little huffy, and Max opens an eye to watch a haughty, slightly offended Arthur distastefully sneer. “I’m tough,” he reminds the alpha for the millionth time, and Max doesn’t have the heart to say: _My dead wife was tough too._ “Stop punishing yourself. You would live in the desert, grow old, and die because you’re afraid?”

 _Yes_. That’s the terrible truth. At least his heart wouldn’t be shattered to pieces again. “You don’t know…”

“ _Yes_ , I do, Max. My whole family was butchered. That pig forced himself on me hundreds of times. _I know_ ,” Arthur spits, silencing Max, leaving him to stew in his shame. Gradually, he climbs off the omega and kneels in the dirty, miserable, examining his hands because he doesn’t deserve to gaze upon his mate right now. He’s a poor excuse for an alpha— _a father_ , a voice that sounds like his daughter’s reminds. A heavy sigh breaks through the ringing of his ears and suddenly Arthur kneels in front of him, dipping down to catch his gaze. “Hope is not a mistake,” he repeats.

Max opens his mouth to dispute the words, but Arthur surges forward to kiss him before he can. It feels wrong to do anything but wrap his arms around the omega and hold him as they embrace, and all the ideas about finding poison berries or leaving evaporate. “Still want a life with me?” he jokes, smiling faintly as they separate.

“Always.” Arthur is truthful and earnest and the affirmation splits his chest wide open.

He kisses the omega’s brow and stands, offering a hand. Arthur should be inside the hut, off his feet, doted on by his mate. That’s the proper way. Max will stay and protect his family because Arthur is wrong: there isn’t just one devil. There’s a devil in each alpha, waiting for a chance to be the next Joe. Only thing stopping them is the ones who refuse to submit.

“You left your boot inside, crazy man,” Arthur teases, an arm looped around Max’s waist as they walk back to the hut.

 

* * *

 

A good time to return to the Citadel doesn’t presents itself for a while. First, Max digs a latrine and begins an irrigation channel that takes forever because he has to dig it by hand. Meanwhile, they’re running low on food. Arthur manages to kill the odd desert pest: a lizard, a buzzard. That feeds them for a few days, but it’s rough goings and Max knows they won’t be able to keep up this routine once the omega’s swollen with child. He has to go back to the Citadel and gather supplies from Furiosa: tools, blankets and clothes, maybe even a goat to provide milk and eventually meat. Once there’s more vegetation, they’ll be self-sufficient because animals will be able to graze and Arthur can grow fresh vegetables to feed them.

The thought of leaving Arthur alone makes him feel sick, but they can’t leave the location unguarded. Funny thing, the heart. One second, he couldn’t wait to get away from his obligations and now he can’t stomach the idea of abandoning his mate and unborn child. Arthur is sporting a small bump these days—rather cute, in Max’s opinion—that juts out over the waistband of his trousers. He likes to rest his head against it while they’re laying in the hut, Arthur running his fingers over Max’s skull and smiling.

A solution to this problem comes one day when Max trudges over the dunes, scavenging for debris he can fashion into tools, when his daughter trots over the sand swell. So accustomed is he to the brain playing tricks that he doesn’t realize it _isn’t_ his daughter until the creature is practically at his feet, wheezing, tongue lolling from its mouth. _A dog_. Half-dead. Ribs jutting out against its sides. Max looks around cautiously, searching for an owner, but all that stares back is endless sand. “Where’d you come from?” he murmurs, crouching down and petting the beast, examining behind its ears, looking for fleas. The mangy fur is clean, relatively speaking. He sighs, reaching for the blade strapped to his thigh. The humane thing to do would be to kill the creature, cut its throat right now, because there’s no way they can feed another mouth.

Then he remembers his upcoming trip to the Citadel. A guard dog would mean more protection for Arthur and the baby.

Arthur is standing outside the hut, offering a horrified look upon their return. “What is _that_?” he frowns.

“Dog,” Max succinctly replies, as if the answer should be obvious. The poor thing meekly approaches Arthur, having detected the presence of a creature far superior to Max, and deferentially sniffs at the omega’s feet. 

 _“Dog_ ,” Arthur repeats, frowning before eventually ducking into the hut to retrieve a few scraps of meat to feed the beast, which of course immediately (and eternally) endears Arthur to him. 

Max is rather pleased, considering this was his plan all along. “Dog will protect you,” he explains as they watch the dog drink steadily from the pond. Afterwards, he charges into the water, splashing about and shaking, water flying everywhere.

Arthur looks less than entirely convinced. “More like I’m gonna protect him. He can barely stand. Look.” Max does and Dog is still splashing about, tongue happily lolling from his mouth. Must have been ages since he last saw, or drank, a drop of water. 

True. Maybe he’s not the ideal bodyguard, but it’s better than nothing, at least enough to ease his conscience for the upcoming trip.

 

* * *

 

Max’s bike is packed and he should go while the sun is high in the sky, but he can’t leave Arthur quite yet. He cradles the omega’s face and kisses his brow, willing his traitorous tongue to move. “Left my sharpest knife in the hut. A pistol too. Use em if trouble comes.” 

His mate isn’t worried. Actually, he looks rather amused that Max is worrying about him. “I’ll be okay. Me and Dog,” he amends, glancing down at the beast, who sits politely at his side, already a devoted follower. Arthur has that effect on alphas, and dogs, apparently. 

Max hums, still unsure about this plan, but knows there’s no alternative. They kiss, Arthur’s arms looping his neck, Max’s hands cradling his waist, and then he makes himself go. _Just a few days_ , he silently repeats, revving the engine and driving the bike from their camp without looking back. If he glances over his shoulder and sees Arthur standing there, watching him leave, Max knows he’ll call off the whole plan.

 

* * *

 

Traveling alone is miserable business. He’s gotten used to companionship, a dangerous crutch in this world because contact with others is a luxury that can be snatched away in the blink of an eye. Max rides all day, probably longer than he should, when it’s dark in the desert and he can barely see where he’s going. Then he relents and makes camp. It’s difficult to sleep. He doesn’t even have anything to remind him of Arthur. There’s a man in Bartertown who will draw your likeness if you give him food or something shiny. Max makes a note to take Arthur there once the baby’s come, and get a picture drawn of them. That way, he’ll always have something to remind him of his family.

The second day, Max pauses to eat a bit of dried meat and discovers a small piece of amber with a hole worn through the stone. Perfect for a necklace, so he pockets it with the intention of gifting it to his mate when he gets back. It’s the thought of Arthur that spurs him to ride late into the second night, until a coyote darts in front of his bike and he nearly wipes out. He interprets it as a sign from his daughter and stops riding to sleep until the sun peeks over the horizon.

The Citadel’s rock fortress looms in the distance on the third day, and Max speeds towards it, only screeching to a halt when guards stop him at the entrance. “Who goes there?” they bark and he holds up hands to show he means no harm. The guards are former War Boys. No longer painted white, but their hair is still short, as if they’ve only just started to grow it back. 

“Max,” he grunts, “Friend to Furiosa.” The boys share wary glances, perhaps remembering his role in the Immortan’s death. He rolls his eyes and gestures up to the tower, “Tell your queen I’m here.”

 

* * *

 

The Citadel is very different from what he remembered. The waterfall system is gone, massive gears destroyed, replaced with complicated irrigation systems that release the underground pools in steady trickles to feed huge swathes of vegetation. Instead of huddled beneath the tower, waiting for a glimmer of empathy from Immortan, the people are farming: planting seeds, weeding, plucking plump fruits from the vine. Max can hardly believe his eyes. Former War Boys carry around baskets full of food instead of steering wheels and weapons.

The world went so backwards that this normalcy seems mad to him.

He’s taken to the tower where Furiosa and the former brides live. “Max!” the other alpha greets, embracing him with a happy laugh. It’s strange to see her like this: smiling, no oil war paint, still brandishing the steel arm and shorn hair, but looking almost content. “How goes it in the west?” Max informs her of everything: the discovery of water, building the camp, Arthur’s pregnancy. He even tells her about Dog. The whole time, her human hand cradles his shoulder, expression intense as she drinks in the details. He’d forgotten how enormously capable she is, and already feels better being here. With Furiosa’s help, their village is bound to flourish. “Good, good. You’ve done everything I asked of you, my friend.”

She is a ruler, and that much is clear as she announces that he will take The Dag and Conch with him on his return to the village. “You’ll need help with Arthur’s pregnancy and growing the crops. And a village needs genetic diversity,” she explains as they walk through the corridors. One of Furiosa’s first decisions was to dynamite the vault. Each omega now has their own room with doors that lock from the inside, and they’re free to come and go as they please. Max doesn’t know anything about genetic diversity, but he knows Furiosa is a reader of books and trusts her judgment. 

“But…the babies,” he weakly points out. Both The Dag and Conch were pregnant the last time he saw them. By now, they’ve surely given birth.

Furiosa flashes a knowing smile. “Even better. Future hands to help you till the crops.” She pauses before one of the doors and pounds her steel fist. A moment late, the door opens and Conch smiles brightly.

“Max!” he cries, diving forward to hug him, which Max was not expecting, and doesn’t really know how to respond. He mumbles and gently pats the youth’s back. “Come in, come in. Come see the baby. Are you well? How’s Larrikin?”

“He’s, um…well. Pregnant,” Max amends and Conch coos about how wonderful that news is. He’s a little afraid to look into the crib, partially convinced the baby will look like Immortan, complete with wild hair and face mask, but when he peeks inside, he sees…a baby. A perfectly normal child with wide, curious eyes and fat little arms and legs. He grunts, extending a hand when the babe reaches for him, smiling faintly when tiny fingers wrap around his thumb. _Lucky you look like Conch_.

The omega glows. “You’re good with him. He doesn’t like alphas usually.”

Max isn’t sure what to say about that. His daughter liked him too, and he failed her. He hums and stares at the baby’s smiling face. _Don’t trust too easy, little one_.

Furiosa informs The Dag and Conch of their duties: ride west carrying their babies in slings, aid Arthur during delivery, and help Max begin the crops. She also gifts Max a goat, another bike for The Dag and Conch to ride on, and parcels of food and fuel. It’s more than he had hoped for, and he’s currently trying to stutter his way through a thank you when Furiosa pulls him aside with a grave expression. He watches her mouth move, wishing Arthur was with him to make sure his busted hearing doesn’t make him miss anything important. He’s able to secure the gist: Furiosa tells him all is not peaceful in the lands these days. She’s managed to secure most of the former War Boys’ loyalty. _Most_ , but not all. Some of the boys have joined a rock rider chief, of the canyon people, and they’re a power hungry bunch.

“Tried to get em to join us, but they don’t want it. I’m watching them, but keep your eyes open too. They may head west looking for water.”

Max nods slowly, “We don’t have much. Maybe two guns.”

She hums. “I’ll send you off with more weapons and ammo too.” They clap hands in a warrior embrace and her eyes shine with something like fondness. “Good to see you, Max.”

 

* * *

 

It takes eight days to get back to camp, and the whole time Max is anxious because he wants to get back to Arthur as soon as possible. But they have to go slow enough for the goat to keep up at a trot and traveling with babies requires stopping frequently so The Dag and Conch can breast feed, and Max pretends to be extremely interested in the gears of his bike because he’s shy in the presence of the omegas’ bared breasts. 

“They’re just tits,” The Dag teases until Conch swats at her and tells the other omega to hush.

“We’re almost done,” he offers and Max furrows his brow, focusing on turning a wrench, and hums.

The goat munches on a twig and bleats, uninterested in the whole thing.

 

* * *

 

They make an awful noise pulling into camp, so Arthur hears them and is already standing outside the hut by the time Max lowers the kickstand and cuts the engine. He’s got a dopey smile on his face when he rushes forth and grabs Arthur in a fierce embrace, kisses his lovely face, and fishes the necklace from his pocket. He ran a strip of leather through the hole and ties it around the omega’s neck. “For you,” he explains.

Arthur touches it relevantly, eyes shining. “Thank you,” he whispers, kissing him again. Finally, he sees who is accompanying the alpha and shouts, running towards his brother and sister. Max wants to tell him not to rush around so carelessly, but doesn’t want to spoil the reunion. Arthur coos over the babies, bathing each with the proper amount of attention and compliments, calling them both _beautiful_. The Dag and Conch shine at the compliments.

Dog cautiously greets the newcomers, sniffing around their ankles, deciding they're all right once Conch scratches behind his ears. Of course, he forgets all about them upon discovering the goat, Dog barking wildly and wagging his tail as the goat stares at him with black, noncommittal eyes. The goat quickly discovers the small patch of grass and stoops down to gobble up the vegetation. Meanwhile, The Dag wanders around, examining their set up. “This is good. I can work with this,” she summarizes, nodding approvingly at the irrigation attempt Max made using nothing but his bare hands.

He’ll need to help the omegas set up their own tents, and Max hopes they can do it quickly because he’s anxious to be alone with Arthur. The bond is thoroughly solidified and being apart from his mate for a week has frayed what’s left of his nerves. “Come, come,” he encourages, snatches the tent bundles off the bikes and gestures to vacant land far enough away from their hut to provide them with a bit of privacy during their reunion. Tomorrow, he’ll help The Dag and Conch build their own huts, but the temporary housing will do for now.

Dog keeps getting under heel, yelping whenever Max accidentally steps on his paw or tail, and the omegas think it’s funny when Max shouts at him. They’re of no help during construction, of course, instead busily cooing over the babies, though at least Conch lobs the odd compliment his way—remarks about how capable he is, how well he’s doing. Pitching a tent is considerably easier than building a hut, and Max has them up in no time, gesturing inside, a subtle hint for the omegas to go lay down so he can be alone with Arthur.

His mate smirks at the obviousness of Max’s desires. “Got an itch that needs scratching?” he teases in a whisper as Max all but drags him into the hut. 

“I missed you,” Max gasps, uncaring if he seems desperate as he yanks off Arthur’s jacket, more careful when he removes the shirt, slowly revealing the swell. His eyes widen when he notes Arthur’s chest now sports gentle swells. _But it’s only been a week_. How could his body have changed so drastically in such a narrow window? Arthur is saying something, probably joking about Max’s stunned expression, but he stops talking when the alpha dips down to seal his wet mouth around one of the nipples. Arthur gasps, back arches, fingers gripping the back of Max’s skull.

“Fuck…” he whimpers and Max groans in agreement. “Max, c’mon…C’mon…” he encourages, peeling the alpha away and fumbling at the waistband of his trousers. They only manage to get them around Arthur’s knees before he lays on his side and Max sprawls beside him. They’ve done it like this before, so he knows the position won’t trigger Arthur, who can still gaze over his shoulder and see it’s Max at his back, not the Immortan. He’s still fully dressed, but lacks the patience to disrobe, instead yanking open the trousers and pulling out his rigid cock. “Oh..” Arthur whimpers when he slides the length between his thighs. He’s wet, trails running between the cheeks to coat his thighs, allowing Max to push inside with a dip and thrust of his hips. “Oh!” Arthur cries again, clawing at the bedding, eyes pinched shut.

Max cups a breast and thrusts with abandon, gaping mouth pressed into Arthur’s hair as he grunts. The omega strokes himself as Max’s thumb flicks a pert nipple and hips piston, gradually nudging him across the bedding. His hand roams south, smoothing across Arthur’s belly, down, pushing his hand out of the way to resume jerking for him. “Max..” Arthur whimpers, squirming, arching his back, blindly reaching back to grope at Max’s burning face, and he sinks his teeth into the omega’s shoulder. A pained sound escapes Arthur’s throat as he comes, the orgasm torn out by the roots.

“Fuck,” he gasps, thrusting even when Arthur seizes around him like a vise. Max shuts his eyes, but sees flames, so he opens them again and focuses on the profile of Arthur’s flushed face, burying deep, panting against his cheek as the knot grows.

He lovingly bites Arthur’s neck and shoulder again, heart pounding wildly as he comes down from the high, and the omega chuckles: “I missed you too.”

 

* * *

 

Conch produces a little vial of oil and explains Arthur should rub it on his stomach and hips. “Skin is stretching so you gotta keep it wet,” he explains. He accepts the bottle, eyeing it thoughtfully, and nods. There’s so much he doesn’t know about birthing a baby, but that’s why his brother and sister are here now. “Your hips will get funny too because they’re spreading for the baby,” Conch says, adding that Arthur shouldn’t worry because they’ve all but perfected the art of natural birth. When he shoots an unsure look, Conch pulls up his tunic to show his belly: flat, uncut. Arthurs must look amazed because he laughs, “Everyone thought they’d have to cut the baby out of me, but I birthed him naturally.” He’s quite proud of himself, as he should be, Arthur decides.

The other omega looks around their hut, dropping not-so-subtle hints that it’s much nicer than his tent. “We’ll build you one too,” he offers.

Conch nods, looking strangely solitary without a baby in his arms. Both the children are down for nap time, which is usually the only time Conch is left to his own devices. “Max is a good mate…” he remarks, cautiously, wading into uncharted waters. Arthur smiles faintly. He understands the other omega’s trepidation. The Dag and Conch are in a strange position for omegas: they’ve born children but are mateless. Not an easy reality. “It’s nice here. Better than the Citadel,” he adds, surprising Arthur, but soon clarifies with a wrinkle of his nose, “Some of the War Boys were bothering me.” _Ah_. He can easily imagine former War Boys making unkind assumptions about a mateless omega with a child. A legacy of Immortan Joe and his poor treatment of omegas. Arthur sneers at the memory of the dead king. Conch sighs and softly adds: “But Max isn’t like that…”

A soft smile curves his lips. He can’t blame Conch for harboring a little crush. And truthfully, it’s not out of the question for a strong alpha to take multiple omegas as mates (one need only recall Immortan’s legacy), but he can’t imagine Max wanting that. In fact, he’s fairly sure if Conch ever approached him with the proposal, Max would turn crimson and head into the desert to be alone for a while.

“When we’re set up, we’ll go the Citadel and recruit more alphas for the village. Find you a handsome, strong mate,” he promises.

Conch’s face lights up and he smiles, looking very young, “I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

The Dag is deadly serious about seed-planting. Arthur thought it was a matter of digging small holes, dropping in the seeds, covering them, watering, and hoping for the best. But apparently there’s a whole science behind it, and The Dag is not amused by his lackadaisical attitude. She nearly boxes his ears when Arthur attempts to bury a plum seed beside the zucchini and The Dag aggressively points out a page in her handwritten almanac that shows it’s not the right time to bury either plant. “You watch and learn,” she advises, so that’s what Arthur does—he observes The Dag and Conch work and picks up tips that way.

Truth is, he’s going a bit batty. No one lets him do much now that he’s visibly pregnant and prone to waddling. Max absolutely refuses to let him lift anything, and The Dag humors more than enjoys his naiveté when it comes to practical matters such as growing food. Even Dog seems wary around him, following Arthur around camp as if afraid to leave him alone too long. Things get so dire that he takes Max’s pistol over the dunes and practices his sharp shooting, aiming for bits of debris, rocks, any worthy target. Dog sits beside him, ears tucked resentfully to his skull, glowering at the thing in Arthur’s hand making loud noises.

Arthur is only on his own for a few minutes before Max comes running over the dune, searching for him. “Arthur!” he barks with a face like thunder. Dog knows they’re in a heap of trouble and whimpers, partially hiding behind Arthur with his tail tucked between haunches.

He rolls his eyes, sighing dramatically and handing over the weapon. “I’m so bored,” he explains, thinking Max is simply annoyed that he wandered off without telling anyone. But then the alpha grabs him roughly, dragging him back towards the camp, a wild expression on his face, and Arthur realizes the situation is more serious. “Stop. You’re hurting me,” he snarls, yanking free his arm.

“ _Don’t_ —“ Max’s voice breaks, expression crumbling into a thousand pieces as he turns away. In a terrible flash, Arthur realizes he’s about to cry. He makes a soft, distressed noise and tries to touch his mate, but Max shrinks away from him, once again furious. “You don’t sneak off without telling me,” he snarls.

Arthur frowns. “I just walked a little ways. Didn’t mean any harm.” Out of habit, he fingers the necklace around his neck, the one Max gifted him. He never takes it off, even when bathing or sleeping.

The alpha’s gaze follows his fingers and softens upon seeing the gesture. He sighs, gripping Arthur’s face, gaze intense in the way normally reserved for when Max wakes from a nightmare. “Always tell me. I need to know.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, gripping his mate’s hands, apologetically kissing the palms. He says it again and kisses Max’s lips, feeling the alpha relax once they're pressed together and a large hand rests against the steep swell of his stomach. “My warrior,” he whispers, nuzzling Max’s face, daring a smile.

Max’s eyes gleam and he smirks, leading Arthur by the hand back to camp.

 

* * *

 

Things are the worst in the final month. Arthur is big and moving about is hard, so he spends a lot of time in the hut where there’s shade. Conch and The Dag usually sit with him and bring food so he doesn’t have to participate in the grueling tasks of hunting and skinning game. Already The Dag’s crops have bared fruit and they have fresh tomatoes to eat. Pregnancy has shifted his palate and suddenly Arthur craves the fruit’s juice, consuming them with gusto like ripe apples. For some reason, this greatly amuses The Dag, who cackles as she watches him devour the tomatoes.

Max worries constantly. He hunts, bringing home too much food, and Arthur has no idea where he finds it all. One time, he returns with a dead beast that looks like an antelope strapped to the back of his bike. Arthur has never seen a creature like it before in person, and knows Max must have trekked deep into the desert to find it. “I don’t need all this,” he says, “I want you here with me.” But now that the baby is almost here, Max is tense and barely sleeps, apparently believing if he doesn’t work endlessly and constantly monitor Arthur, something terrible is going to happen.

The only time he relaxes is when they’re alone at night and Arthur squirms out of his clothing. He thought perhaps the alpha wouldn’t find him appealing during pregnancy, but the opposite is true. Max mouths at his breasts worshipfully, and they find positions where Arthur is comfortable rutting. He straddles Max’s waist, bucking enthusiastically as the alpha squirms and bites his fist to keep from shouting as Arthur rides him. Max tells him he smells wonderful, and while Arthur can’t detect his own scent, he’s heard stories about how omegas’ scents change when they conceive. The alpha is always sniffing him, breathing deeply the space between his shoulder and neck, burying his face between Arthur’s thighs, inhaling and lapping until the omega begs for him.

“Baby’s coming soon,” Arthur murmurs afterwards, when sleep creeps closer like a rising tide. Eyes are shut while the knot locks them together, and Max lazily strokes his stomach. His mate hums, but says nothing, and he knows there is still a trace of fear in his heart. There are no words to undo what’s happened to Max, and Arthur knows the only way is to move forward. “Everything will be different,” he whispers, already asleep. Detecting its father is trying to rest, the baby gives a little kick.

Max, still quiet, kisses his temple.

 

* * *

 

Arthur is in a sour mood. His ankles hurt and it’s difficult to sleep at night because his breasts are so heavy with milk. The omega wears his hair longer these days, and Max can’t help but notice he doesn’t hold the same grooming standards for himself as he does for his mate. Not that Max is complaining. He rather likes the long locks, the way they curl around Arthur’s ears. Now that he’s built huts for Conch and The Dag, they’re left to their own devices most of the day, apart from their ritual visits to check in on Arthur to provide company and see if he needs anything. The Dag always brings treats: new fruits, bits of dried meat, a jug of goat's milk. The new living arrangements provide them with privacy, though sometimes Arthur tires of his presence and needs to be alone for a bit.

Max never travels far, just up to the top of the dunes to look around. From the high vantage point, he can see their whole village, Dog wandering around, briefly pausing to sniff the goat in greeting. He shields his eyes from the sun and gazes east, then west, observing the vast expanse of nothing. Suddenly, a dot moves over a dune a few hundred yards away. Max imagines it’s a buzzard, but no, the shape is human. He waits for his daughter to come into focus, but instead the form sharpens into the figure of a young boy. Maybe twelve-years-old. Kneeling, a telescope balanced on his thigh.

 _A spy_.

“Shit,” he gasps, breaking into a sprint just as the boy spots him and takes off as well. The little bugger is quick, already vanished behind the dune, but Max picks up the pace, thighs burning as he charges through the sand. His lungs suck in great gulps of air, and when he tears over the top of the dune, he sees he’s much closer than he thought to catching up with the lad, who upon closer inspection, is hobbled by a limp. Max tackles him, the boy fearfully squealing, probably imagining the alpha will butcher him. “ _Quiet_ ,” he snarls, covering the boy’s mouth. “Who sent you?”

“Rock Rider Chief,” the boy sputters, tears spilling down his cheeks. Max readjusts his age estimate to ten-years-old. “I was just gonna watch, honest. He heard there’s a new tribe in these parts.”

“You spill this secret and I’ll find you and cut out your insides, understand?” Max growls, bearing his teeth to look extra fierce. 

The boy shrinks, whimpering. “I won’t tell. I promise.”

Max doesn’t really believe him, but what choice does he have? He can’t kill a child, nor can he take the boy prisoner because they can’t afford the extra food needed to keep him alive. For all he knows, the chief specifically sent a boy because he knows Max is soft and won’t butcher him. Just then, Conch’s desperate voice travels over the hills, calling his name. His head snaps up. _Arthur. The baby_. He doesn’t have time to deal with the spy, and besides, the damage is done. Rock Rider Chief knows they exist. Maybe he’s interested in their water. Maybe not. Only time will tell. “Go. Speak of us and I’ll take your tongue.” He releases him, the child scrambling to his feet, tripping and falling, then staggering upright once more before he takes off running.

He runs back to camp where The Dag is pacing outside their hut. “Where were you?” she asks accusingly, but Max ignores her and tries to charge inside. She shields the way, face a fierce mask of determination. “No,” she hisses. “Alphas go wild when they see blood.”

Max sneers to show how little regard he has for tradition. Ordinarily, alphas are kept from the birthing tents because the sight of blood whips them up into frenzies. He lacks the vocabulary to tell The Dag he’ll go mental if he’s kept from Arthur. Tear the camp apart. Snap their necks like twigs. “Woman, _move_ ,” he spits, gripping The Dag’s narrow wrist and hurling her aside, too rough, but she recovers quickly, slapping him across the face, a nail slicing his cheek. He shouts, outraged, but Arthur’s voice silences them both:

“Dag! Let him, _please_ …”

She bears her teeth in response to his smug stare, but steps aside, permitting him entrance. As he suspected, Arthur is in labor, half-delirious, sobbing and calling for him. An enormous wave of guilt crashes over him, even though Max only left to protect their village.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, kneeling beside the bedding and gripping Arthur’s hand. Conch is also kneeling, but between the omega’s spread thigh, inspecting his progress. _Soon_ , he announces, a diagnosis that surprises Max. His first wife was in labor many hours before his daughter came. Tenderly, he strokes his mate’s brow, bending down to kiss the burning flesh and whisper words of encouragement to him. Another contraction tears through Arthur’s body and he screams, sending a whimpering Dog sprinting from the hut.

“Max…Max…” the omega babbles, face twisted in agony. Pain during birthing is necessary, and yet his heart aches seeing his mate suffer. If he could, he would take all the burden and bear it for Arthur. 

He makes soft, soothing sounds with his mouth. A dark thought crosses his mind: omegas die in childbirth all the time, and while Conch has been learning how to deliver babies, they are in the middle of no where, and should something go wrong, these will be his last moments with Arthur. Max gazes at his face, memorizing the details of his cupid’s bow mouth and the stubborn furrow of his brow. He dips down and steals a greedy sniff of the omega’s scent. Each feature filed away in his mind’s drawers, lovely memories to wield against the nightmares. 

“I love you, beauty.”

Arthur looks at him in surprise, perhaps not realizing until that moment that they’ve never exchanged such words. Other promises, yes, but never oaths of luxurious romance. He’s pleased because it’s not easy to surprise Arthur, and he’s also managed to distract him (momentarily) from the pain. For once, there is no sarcastic quipping or teasing. Arthur’s eyes brim with tears when he whispers: “Love you.”

“I see the head,” Conch shyly intervenes, not wanting to shatter the moment, but also needing Arthur to prepare for the final few pushes.

The omega’s grip is like Furiosa’s steel claw, threatening to splinter Max’s bones as he squeezes, a terrible scream tearing from his throat, veins pressing against the flesh as he uses his strength to push the baby forth. Suddenly, a bloody, wet mass is in Conch’s arms—not moving, not crying. Max’s first daughter entered the world screaming bloody murder, so icy terror immediately grips him. The sight of blood makes him feel too hot, slightly dizzy, and he remembers The Dag’s warning. He can’t go wild. He has to be clear-headed for Arthur. Max sucks in deep breath, stroking Arthur’s hand. Conch is calm, using a rag to clear the mouth, dipping his finger inside and scooping out mucus. Still the baby doesn’t cry. Max watches numbly as Conch cuts the cord with a knife and moves the baby across the hut where he can work on it—doing what, he doesn’t know. 

“Don’t let Joe take it. Don’t let Joe,“ Arthur babbles, groping the air for Max, hallucinating that he’s back in the vault, Immortan’s property, and his child is about to be taken from him. He grips the omega’s knuckles and kisses them. _Hush, beauty_. He doesn’t know what to tell him. Maybe the baby is dead. The Dag’s blonde head pokes inside and she glances around, frowning when she sees Conch huddled over the baby, still scooping into the mouth, clearing the airway and pressing on its little chest. The baby is dead and he’s going to have to tell Arthur. 

_You’ve chosen a cursed man, my love._

Nux, crouching beside him as he sinks: _Everything that burns, burns_.

The baby sucks in a breath and bellows: a piercing, gorgeous cry. Conch shouts victoriously and Max releases a desperate sound—half sigh, half cry. The only one seemingly oblivious to how close they came to a funeral is Arthur, who only comprehends the baby is okay and crying. “Let me…Can I see?” he implores, so Conch cleans the baby up a bit and wraps it in a shawl, returning it to Arthur’s arms. _A girl_ , he informs them, classification unknown. They won’t know that until the child is approximately two years of age, but first-borns are usually alphas.

Max glows, facial muscles aching at the foreign expression. He hasn’t grinned like a fool since the birth of his first child. This time, she came out with a little tuft of dark hair, and when she looks up, Max’s eyes stare up at him. _I’ll come back as the baby._ He’s come to understand life is long and anything is possible, and while madness infects his brain, Max has seen too much to say it’s impossible his daughter’s soul has returned in a new body. 

“That’s a Tallara if I ever seen one,” The Dag remarks, head poking into the hut. Max grunts, still sore about their earlier confrontation, but his curiosity has been piqued. He asks her what it means, “Great rains. Like the olden times.” _Rain_. Max hasn’t seen rain since he was a little boy, and he thinks some rain is exactly what they need in this world where everything is fire and ash.

“Tallara,” Arthur murmurs, sleepy, a sweet smile balanced on his lips. “She does look like a Tallara.” Conch deals with the afterbirth and cleans the hut for them, then silently departs to grant them some privacy and see to his child. They curl up on the bedding, tiny Tallara laying between them, bright eyes hungrily drinking in the details of this new world. Max hasn’t held a baby in so long that he’s forgotten how small they are—how very fragile. “Told you…hope’s not a mistake,” Arthur whispers, exhausted, seconds away from sleep.

Max thinks of the boy, the spy, running towards the horizon.

No, not a mistake. But a wise man anticipates the next Immortan. Tomorrow, he’ll send word to Furiosa. They need more alphas to defend their village.

“Go to sleep, my beauties,” he whispers, kissing Arthur and Tallara’s brows and then watching as they slip into a deep slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr: theaoidos.tumblr.com


	3. The Rock Rider Chief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone wants to own the water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faceclaims:
> 
> Conch: Ben Whishaw  
> Daku: Daniel Craig  
> Gadget: Bear Grylls  
> Rock Rider Chief: Idris Elba

Max doesn’t want to leave Arthur and the baby, but he can’t see a way around it. He needs to make a run to the Citadel to collect reinforcements and weapons, and Tallara is much too small to endure the long trek. “One week,” he promises, kissing the baby’s warm brow as she rests cradled in the omega’s arms. Tallara’s bright eyes curiously watch him. She likes his face, and when he smiles, she smiles back. Max tells himself it’ll be all right—Arthur is tough, and after all, Conch and The Dag will be with him. Poor little Conch doesn’t offer much in the way of muscle, but Max wouldn’t want to face The Dag on the battlefield. His face still vibrates from the last time she struck him.

“All is well,” Arthur coos, nuzzling him, offering a sweet kiss that tastes like figs. The Dag is growing them now, along with a variety of other foods that grow lush, stretching over a now-green hill. The crops make Max nervous because they’re highly visible. No way the canyon tribe and Rock Rider Chief haven’t noticed them. 

_Won’t be long now._

“You…” he points at Dog, who sits at the other side of the hut, paws neatly folded beside the gnarled remains of a rat’s spine, “Watch them,” he grunts, pointing at Arthur and the baby. Dog doesn’t respond, but his ears are perked, keenly monitoring. Dog has sussed out the baby is new and fragile, and he’s been attached to Arthur’s hip since the birth, snarling at even their other tribes members if they come too close to Tallara. The beast’s fierce protectiveness pleases Max, and eases his conscience a bit about leaving his family.

He gives The Dag a revolver and most of his bullets before mounting a bike and instructing Arthur to, “Come here.” He watches the omega smirk and carefully hand over Tallara to Conch, a move that first irks Max, but then remembers that he’s already said good-byes to his daughter, and the loud growl of the bike won’t be good for her little ears. Unlike Max, who barely registers the roar. When Arthur is standing beside him, the omega runs his fingers through his hair, Max watching his lips move.

“Tell Furiosa I had the baby. Tell her we need more alphas now.” Max nods. For some reason, he has the easiest time reading Arthur’s lips, and once again finds himself wishing the omega was coming with him to the Citadel. Sometimes, Furiosa talks quickly and Max is too proud to ask her to stop and repeat what she’s just said. He reaches to the omega’s clavicle, touching the amber stone, rolling it between his fingers. Arthur smiles his secret smile. “I dream about you when you’re not here.”

Max feels the corner of his eye twitch and the hand falls away. Dreams are witchery, portals that allow his daughter to visit. She tells or shows him things and they always come true. Lately, the Rock Rider Chief watches him, perched atop his metal steed at the peak of a tall dune, horns extending from the helmet, a crown of long tangles pouring down his back. He revs the engine, which is a growling voice that spits: _Here I come, Road Warrior._

A cool hand touches his cheek. When he looks up, Arthur’s eyes are soft and weepy, like he can see inside Max’s head. It makes him nervous how the omega can read him these days. Max prefers scurrying off to lick his wounds in the shadows, but Arthur is always chasing him with light, exposing everything. The hand slides to his shoulder and Arthur steps forth, cradling Max’s head against his chest, petting his hair, kissing the top of his crown. He could rest here all day, an ear pressed to the omega’s soft breast. “I love you, crazy man.” 

Max snorts and kisses where the tunic splits to reveal a sliver of flesh—a lovely hipbone pressed against alabaster flesh. The skin is tinted slightly purple where he bit during their last rutting.

* * *

His skin aches with sun burn, every inch of flesh coated with sand and dirt by the time he rolls the bike into the Citadel. This time, the guards know who he is, and wave him through. He kicks down the stand and alights, shaking his head, a cloud of dust billowing out from his skull. Ears ring, but beneath that, noise of chuckling, and when he looks up, Capable is standing there with a radiant smile. Max forgets to be tired for a moment and smirks. “Somethings never change, ay?” she asks, red hair braided in pigtails, waving to his bike. He isn’t sure what she means so he grunts in agreement. “Anyway, come with me. Furiosa is expecting you. Did you know the War Boys think you’re a demon? They call you the Road Demon. Spooky.” 

Max misses most of this as Capable walks ahead of him and chatters too quickly for him to understand. Doesn’t matter, though. He simply follows, knowing she’ll bring him to Furiosa. They ascend the platform to the Citadel’s skull and walk through a labyrinth before rounding a corner and discovering Furiosa chatting with a deferentially hunched War Boy. She’s gesturing grandly out a window, pointing below to the tilling fields, barking various orders. The boy nods and nods, agreeing, until she sees them and excuses him from their meeting. Her face is a glowing smile, which warms Max before they embrace and she asks if he’s well. He hums, nodding, before explaining as succinctly as possible that Arthur had the baby and they need reinforcements.

Furiosa cries out in happiness, clapping him on the back. “Well done, Max!” she laughs. “I knew you had it in you. Who won?” she asks, glancing at Capable.

The omega wrinkles her nose. “Toast, but it’s not fair. She always knows when omegas will pop.”

He glances between them, confused, until Furiosa grins: “We had a bet on how long it would take for you to plant your seed and till the crop.”

Max faces burns and his chin drops as he examines the fractured rock, Capable’s sandals, and the henna painted on her feet, anything but the omega and alpha’s faces as they snicker at his embarrassment. He mumbles: “Need strong men, some guns.”

“Yes, yes,” Furiosa chuckles, squeezing his shoulder in a friendly way, “I have just the men.”

* * *

Immortan Joe’s vault is now Furiosa’s office and a seed bank. Lines of War Boys — Max wonders what they call themselves these days, or if they’ll always be _War Boys_ — filter in and out of the vault, carrying supplies and depositing new seedlings into their proper locations. The seeds are stored in a variety of different receptacles—whatever is handy at the time: wooden boxes, old bags, plastic waste, discarded shoes and boots. There is a method to the madness, it seems, as the receptacles are sorted alphabetically, giant letters painted on the walls of the rooms, from A-to-Zed. Furiosa’s work space is one corner of the main room, an old wooden door bolstered by stacks of rocks. Hardly a glorious throne, but then again, Max imagines she’s not a fan of monarchy.  

There are no traces of Joe’s glorious haul, most likely the precious artifacts having been broken down for utilities and supplies.

A map rests unfurled on the work surface, and Max knows it’s cartography of Fury Road. He immediately spots the red “X” over Immortan’s old Skull and Flames, and then a circle around the canyon with a line drawn to a spot in the west—right to Max’s new home. He’s still staring at it when Furiosa barks: “Bring me Daku and Gadget.” The call goes out, echoed a hundred times, growing fainter down the line, spiraling downward through the Citadel and to the main level. A few moments late, the War Boys part as two alphas walk into the vault. Their heads are not shaved and their skin looks like Max’s, leading him to believe they are fellow road warriors. He glances warily at Furiosa, nervous because he thought she would gift him timid War Boys familiar with following orders. These men are leather-clad, strapping and strong. One, the taller man, actually smirks at Max. She understands his trepidation and points to the shorter, blond man: “Daku. Hails from Bullet Farm. Expert at crafting bullets and building, and maintaining, weaponry.” Her human hand drifts, gesturing to the second man (the smirker): “Gadget. Leftover from Bartertown. He can fix anything— _anything_ Max. Engines, cars, bikes, whatever you need. Both are battle tested. Both have dozens of kills under their belts. Only the best, my friend.”

He hums, glancing back to the men’s faces. The blond man has piercing blue eyes. Max doesn’t like the intensity of his gaze, so he looks away to the smirker, whose brows are now quirked like he finds this all terribly amusing. He can’t say he particularly cares for either of them. “Thought you’d give me more,” he says, grumbling unhappily.

Furiosa grips his shoulder, dipping down a bit so their gazes meet. She doesn’t look angry, but rather earnest, as if the idea of disappointing Max upsets her: “Plus a bevy of weapons, friend. Believe me, I would give you an army if I thought it’d be better, but these men—“ she waves her finger at the two alphas, “They’re better. Trust me.” He’s quiet for a while, pondering before exhaling through his nose and grunting, which Furiosa interprets as acceptance, eyes gleaming as she gazes at him. 

Just then, two War Boys get into a bit of a scuffle and the taller of the two shoves the other, sending the boy tumbling into a covered object that looks like a large rock. Except, when he hits the side, it sings. A War Boy shouts, “Witchery!” which whips the others into a frenzy and soon all the young man repeat the charge. Furiosa sighs, stalking over to the drop cloth and pulling it off with a flourish, revealing—Max isn’t sure what. He knows he’s seen something like it before, maybe in a picture, but he can’t remember the word.

“Piano,” she explains.

Daku snorts. “What’s it for?”

The leader looks at him like he’s asked a very stupid question. “ _Music_. One of Immortan’s brides played it.” She pauses, running a human palm across the onyx flank. Max imagines a beautiful, black steed. “Conch played it.” Her eyes, and voice, are far away for a second, but soon she snaps back to the present and barks at some of the boys, “Wrap it up! You’re taking it with you.”

Gadget stares at her in disbelief, “Using _what_? That thing is huge.”

 _Too much saucy lip_ , Max notes. He hums unhappily. Furiosa glances at him, registering the complaint, her tone sharper as she addresses the other alpha: “One of the big trucks. Consider it a gift,” and before they can file any other complaints, “Go pack your gear,” she tells the men, who promptly turn and leave the vault. 

Furiosa claps Max on the back again, maybe proud that he’s accepted the offer. For some reason, he feels sour about the deal. Max doesn’t trust easy. He nods to the hive where some of the War Boys continue to don white paint and shave their heads. “Why do they still do that?”

She looks over to the young men and sighs: “Tradition is all they have.”

* * *

Night is quiet without Max in the hut, curdled up beside him, the knot locking them together, snoring and muttering in his sleep. Their bedding feels too large without the alpha, so Arthur keeps Tallara in bed with him, the baby sleeping fitfully as though she knows the balance of their home has been disturbed. Dog keeps watch outside the door of the hut, surveying the horizon for any trouble. Arthur isn’t afraid. He can feel in his bones that no one will come for them tonight, and besides, he has a gun and knife within arm’s reach at all times. 

“Miss your ol’ man?” he whispers, stroking back the dark fringe from her brow. Tallara offers a wide toothless smile, kicks her little feet, and Arthur smiles back. “Me too.”

Suddenly, Dog growls at the front of the hut, and Arthur eases onto an elbow, slowly reaching for the knife as he listens. “Larrikin?” Conch calls.

Exhaling, he calls: “It’s okay, Dog.”

A few seconds later, Conch eases past the hide divider, the baby asleep in his arms. Recently, The Dag dubbed the child Rabi, _breeze_ , guaranteed to _breathe new life into the village_ , according to their fair-headed sister. Conch visiting at this hour is not uncommon. No doubt, The Dag is sprawled across her bedding, snoring a blissful slumber, but Conch has nightmares and wakes easily. He hasn’t adjusted to sleeping alone without his brothers and sisters within near reach. “Are you asleep?” he quietly asks, even though it’s obvious Arthur isn’t.

“No, come keep me company.”

They arrange the babies between them, Tallara desperately craning her neck to get a look at the other, slightly larger child. Meanwhile, Rabi only has eyes for Conch, who he carefully monitors as if afraid the omega may vanish at any moment. “I can’t sleep. Too quiet,” Conch explains, flashing a self-conscious smile.

“You used to say the War Boys kept you up with all their noise,” Arthur teases.

Conch smiles, resting his head against some bundled bedding. “I know, but I miss…” he trails off, eyes darting as if searching for the explanation, “Remember how Toast would sing?” Arthur smiles faintly and nods, “And we played the alphabet game Ms. Giddy taught us?” Starting from A, they would run through the alphabet, according to category: plants, animals, places, everything they had learned from their history teacher, calling to each other through the internal walls of the vault. “It was a prison, but we had each other.”

“You still have me and The Dag,” Arthur whispers, reaching for Conch’s hand.

The other omega laces their fingers and squeezes, flashing a smile. “I know. But I get lonesome at night.”

Arthur hums a soft tune, stroking the pulse of Conch’s wrist until the other omega drifts to sleep. Silently, he says a prayer that Max will bring back an alpha to keep Conch company.

* * *

Max doesn’t speak to the men until he absolutely has to, when Gadget is positioned on a bike, and Daku is in the driver’s seat of an idling flatbed (covered piano strapped to the back), head sticking out the open window. “We ride west until I say stop,” is all he says before they begin the long journey back home. He’s nervous riding the whole time, hating that the men travel a little behind him, even though that’s the logical choice. After all, he’s the only one who knows exactly where they’re headed, but still Max is plagued by the fear one (or both) of the alphas will attack him. He hasn’t been in the company of other male alphas for many years, unless counting time spent as a prisoner of Immortan Joe and the War Boys, which he doesn’t consider a pleasant memory. 

Male alphas always mean trouble.

They have to make camp at night and Daku builds a small fire while Gadget makes some adjustments on the bike. When he walks over to Max’s ride, he grunts and waves him away. “It’s fine,” he says. Part of him believes Gadget will sabotage his bike and he and Daku will ride the rest of the way to their camp to rape the omegas and burn the village to the ground. An absurd idea, logically impossible, but he can’t shake the fear. Everything out here hurts or bites with poisonous fangs.

Gadget’s hand falls to his side, clenching the small wrench, and he smirks. “So you _can_ talk.”

Max looks back to the fire where a rat roasts on the end of a stick. He stuck the unlucky fellow when they made camp, and now he’ll eat him for dinner. Finders, keepers. He _could_ share, but the selfish, resentful part of him doesn’t want to. Let the alphas find their own dinner, he thinks, as the meat crackles in the flames.

Daku is crouched by the flames, warming his hands. One of them is wrapped with blood-stained cloth. In the light, Max sees fine lines around his eyes and mouth. He’s older. Maybe even older than Max. Once again, he questions the wisdom of the Imperator. Why did she send him off with a bag of guns, a piano, and two older alphas, both of whom seem to possess worryingly recalcitrant behavior? Why not send him off with a proper arsenal and forty…fifty… _one hundred_ War Boys? A real reckoning to face down the Rock Rider Chief and his riders.

“We’re not your enemy,” Daku says.

Max pulls the meat from the flames and eats it smoking right off the stick. The flesh is bitter and chewy. _We’ll see about that_.

* * *

They trade maybe twenty words the whole journey — the handful of monosyllabic words are torn from Max like a stubborn tree’s roots from thick soil — half of them occurring when he blew a tire and shouted profanity into the sky. Riding on a spare, they finish the ride in six days, his best record yet, and he’s pleased to see the village looking largely unchanged from the last time he saw it, save for Goat gnawing on some of The Dag’s crops, and a screaming Dag swatting at the unfazed beast with a rag. She stops bellowing when they pull into the valley with their bikes and truck. 

Gadget alights and unfortunately mistakes The Dag for a friendly omega. He smiles brightly and gestures to the munching creature. “Stubborn, ay?” The Dag hisses at him and he steps back, frowning in alarm. “Is she rabid?” he asks Max, who hides a smile behind his hand.

He leaves the bike and alphas to go search for Arthur, who is on his way from the hut, Tallara cradled in his arms. For the first time in a week, Max smiles with his whole face, laughing when the baby sees him and reaches with fat little arms. “My beauty,” he sighs, carefully gathering her and allowing the child to bat at his face. He laughs and pretends to eat her fist, Tallara’s favorite game, and she responds with shrieking laughter.

Arthur watches the display, smiling, until he sees the other alphas. “Introduce me,” he says and Max glances to the men, frowning. 

He carries his daughter over to the truck where Daku and Gadget are milling about, unstrapping the piano, and probably discussing how they should move it, and to where (where _does_ one put a piano in the middle of the desert?). “This is my mate,” he says unceremoniously, wanting to clearly establish from the beginning that Arthur is his, and he will destroy either (or both) of the alphas if they try any funny business.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I’m Larrikin,” he offers, using his old name, probably (correctly) guessing his mate will kill the alphas if either of them uses the name Max calls him in bed. 

Wisely, neither of the men reaches to shake his hand, instead nodding from atop the flatbed, and introducing themselves. Gadget nods at his daughter, “And who is this wee princess?”

Arthur smiles, face shining with pride, “Tallara.”

Gadget covers his heart and bows with a flourish. “I’m honored, little miss.”

He would roll his eyes, except Tallara giggles and pumps her fists in the air, as if pleased. Max frowns instead. “That’s enough,” he mumbles, turning them away. He doesn’t like Tallara laughing at other alphas. But by now, the commotion has attracted Conch, and The Dag has calmed down enough to walk over and be properly introduced to the men, who are now more than wary of the flaxen-haired omega. 

Arthur makes all introductions and Daku thoughtfully eyes Conch once his title has been announced. “You’re Conch?” he asks. The youngest omega is shy, partially shielded behind Max when he tentatively nods. The alpha hums, “Then it was worth all the trouble,” before pulling off the sheet to reveal the piano.

Conch gasps, eyes huge as he hurries forth, and Max is a little afraid he’ll drop Rabi. “I…Furiosa said I can have it?” he sputters, amazed, and Max can’t blame him. Of all the things they sorely need, he’d put a piano last on the list. But still, seeing the revelation light up Conch from the inside, he can’t say he’s sorry for all the hassle. 

“All yours,” Gadget grins, and the happiness is drained from Max once more. He hates how familiar the alpha is with the omegas, and worse, how Arthur and Conch positively respond to him.

On the other hand, he’s never been more fond of The Dag when she glowers at the mechanic. “Watch your silver tongue,” she spits and the smile drops right off the alpha’s face.

* * *

They set up Conch’s piano by the green space, shaded beneath four poles and a tarp. All Max can think is it’s yet another prominent landmark for the Rock Rider Chief’s spies to notice, but he can’t feel too cynical when Conch hurries over to sit on the small bench and plays a lovely little piece. He can’t remember the last time he heard live music. Probably in Bartertown where sometimes street performers play drums and flutes.  

Conch plays better than them and the tribe is rapt. Only Daku drifting closer to Conch pulls Max from his reverie. He hums, unhappy, until Arthur gently touches his elbow. “No need to bark,” he playfully whispers.

The problem is: Arthur trusts easily, but Max has lived on the road too long, so he warily watches Daku sit beside the omega and observe him playing.

“You’re quite good,” the older alpha notes.

Conch’s face is red and not from the sun. He stops playing. “Ms. Giddy could play a little. Then I taught myself…a bit…I mess up a lot.”

Arthur has his arm now, insistently pulling and steering him away from the piano. Max grunts once to make his displeasure known, but Arthur leans up to nip his earlobe. “Leave them be. Let Conch make a friend.” Max frowns, eyeing his mate as though he’s gone mad. Leave one of their omegas alone with a strange alpha? Correction: _two_ strange alphas. Gadget is lingering by the truck under the guise of securing their vehicles, but really he seems wary of straying too close to The Dag, who watches him from afar, smirking.

A cry emits from her living quarters and she turns away, joining them in their walk back to the huts. Her baby, recently dubbed _Gurumarra_ (Gur for short, sounding like a feral growl when The Dag says it), had been slumbering for an afternoon nap, but has since awaken. Of all the babies, he’s the most independent, perfectly content when The Dag leaves him inside their hut and tends to the crops throughout the day, only taking breaks to breastfeed and occasionally play with the child. She is of the belief that Arthur and Conch fret over the children entirely too much. _Good alphas know how to be alone_ , she’s said on more than one occasion.

Max makes a concerned sound and glances back at Conch again. “No alpha can woo him if you’re looming nearby,” Arthur teases, offering a sweet smile that distracts Max.

What’s this business about wooing? Daku and Gadget are here for protection, not fornication. The Dag cackles at his concerned, wrinkled brow. “He’s young and bears fruit. Of course alphas want to mount him,” she laughs before ducking inside her hut. Arthur grips his hand and pulls until they’re inside their own quarters and he can take Tallara from Max’s arms and place her on the bedding for swaddling. The baby huffs and makes soft discontented noises until Arthur has her properly bundled whereupon she offers a mighty yawn and closes her eyes. 

“We shouldn’t leave Conch,” Max mumbles again, heading for the door, but Arthur stands in his way. 

“He’s lonely, Max,” Arthur whispers, long fingers sliding up the alpha’s chest, warming him at first touch, “Besides, I know another omega who needs looking after,” he whispers, a brow suggestively quirked. 

Max frowns, even though the heat is spreading to his neck and down his belly towards his loins. He’s always considered Conch a child, the runt of Immortan’s litter, but it’s true he’s a fertile omega. He supposes it must be lonely for him to have all the burden of raising a child without any of the benefits of being doted on by an alpha. “How do you know Conch likes him?” he mumbles, mildly resentful that an alpha who has been in the camp for a flash has already secured the attention of an omega he has been charged to protect.

Arthur flashes his secret smile. “Omegas just know. But he’ll cry if he needs help. Let him make a friend,” the omega sighs, stepping forward to press against him, and Max forgets all about Conch, his piano, and the strange alphas he doesn’t trust yet. Max reaches down and pulls off the linens Arthur favors when it’s blazing outside. They pool around his ankles and Arthur smiles, gripping Max’s wrists and placing his hands on his naked rear. “Did you miss me?” he whispers against Max’s lips.

He answers with a kiss, Arthur whimpering as the alpha paws at him roughly, fingers gripping his cheeks to squeeze and pull them apart so he can trace the wet crevice. He grunts when they separate, Arthur’s teeth pulling at his bottom lip. “Tallara…” Max rasps, glancing at their daughter, who is sleeping peacefully on the bedding.

“We’ll be quiet. I’ll bite my fist,” Arthur negotiates, clever fingers already shedding Max of his jacket, yanking off his shirt, and unfastening his slacks. Max grunts in agreement, hands bumping with his mates’ as he helps him along.

Arthur lays supine atop Max’s jacket and shirt and opens his legs just as the alpha dives between his thighs. As promised, Arthur bites his knuckles at the first lick. “Missed you,” Max whispers against a wet thigh, deliberately rubbing his beard against the tender flesh. With his free hand, Arthur runs fingers through Max’s hair, tenderly stroking his scalp while urging him forward. In all his dreams, all the times his brain has recycled intimate moments with his mate, he’s never able to replicate the omega’s taste. A ripe, juicy peach. 

His tongue plunges deep, curling, lips flush against him as Max gazes upwards past the flat plain of his stomach to Arthur’s heaving chest. “Max…” he warns, thighs trembling predictably given it’s been a week since they last—The thought leaves him when Arthur’s spine suddenly arches and he moans into his palm. Max laps as much as he can, but the stream mostly wets his jacket, face, and chest. The scent washes over him, leaving him in a dazed stupor afterwards until he realizes Arthur is tugging at his arms, pulling him upwards. “C’mon, while the baby…” Arthur trails off, eyes glazed, fixed on the hard length between Max’s legs. Wet face leaves a trail of kisses along his stomach, over the jagged M scar, across the swells of his breasts. “Max…” he exhales, mouth dropping open in a silent cry when the alpha thrusts inside.

Arthur bites his shoulder, which reminds Max of their first time, when they desperately rutted in secret, terrified of Furiosa’s wrath. He’s unable to stay totally silent, occasionally grunting on the end of a thrust, and half-glancing to the bed to make sure Tallara isn’t thrashing for attention. Arthur pulls away for air but ends up groaning, so Max covers his mouth with his fingers, thrusting sharply, stunning the omega into silence. Eyes roll back in a pleasured daze before they slip shut entirely. Max swears beneath his breath when the omega swallows one of his fingers, suckling hungrily as they rut. His pelvis and Arthur’s rear are soaked, along with his jacket, but Max doesn’t care. He’ll wash it tomorrow in the water. It’s worth it. It’s all worth it.

Wet plundering noises fill the hut, mixing with the occasional grunt that escapes one of their throats, until Arthur’s mouth drops open and he’s trembling again, which is too much for Max, who bows his head and thrusts until he falls over the edge after his mate.

* * *

 

“Ms. Giddy could play a little. Then I taught myself…a bit…I mess up a lot.” 

Daku smiles faintly and watches Conch’s fingers drift over the keys. He’s being modest, or Daku’s unmusical ears can’t hear the slips. The alpha glances at his profile again. Conch is young, maybe half his own age, and fair. Clearly he hasn’t spent much time outside, as one would expect of one of Immortan’s kept brides. It’s been a long time since he’s been near an omega, and it’s a strange thing—how immediately calmed he is by the youth’s presence, how alluring he finds his scent, even though there’s an undercurrent of foulness, remnants of Immortan Joe that could be scrubbed away by the attention of another alpha. 

Idle thoughts…

He glances up and sees Gadget watching them. Daku furrows his brow and glances meaningfully to the truck. _Fuck off. Let me enjoy this_. The other alpha hesitates and Daku doesn’t understand why until realization dawns upon him and he grins slowly. “Afraid she’ll catch you alone? Eat you alive?”

Conch stops playing, and he’s surprised by how the air feels barren without the pleasant sounds. “The Dag isn’t mean. She’s just protective.”

Gadget looks at Conch like he’s grown a second head. “If you say so, little one,” he mumbles, shaking his head, but at least he’s walking back to the truck now to grant them a bit of privacy. By now, Max is no doubt rutting his mate so he has a window—an opportunity—to ingratiate himself if he can just remember how to speak to the fairer sect. There’s something sad about Conch’s face that he’s drawn to—a sullenness beyond his years. Daku wants to touch his skin, run his fingers through the thick mane, but he knows that will spook the omega, who will probably cry out and alert the road warrior. And Daku isn’t in the mood for a desert brawl.

“Do you have a mate?” Conch asks lightly, resuming his playing.

The corner of his mouth quirks at the inquiry’s innocent sheen. “Do I smell like I have a mate?” He watches Conch’s cheeks redden. Scent is a very intimate thing between alphas and omegas, and he knows the omega must have secretly taken a whiff while they sat shoulder-to-shoulder. Not that he’ll admit it, nor does Daku feel like letting him suffer. “Never saw the point. All this death and destruction. Having a family would slow me down.”

This time, he definitely hears Conch strike an errant note when he makes a mistake because he’s too busy looking over to him in surprise. “So you’ve never—“ he stops short, the blush darkening as he finds himself in uncouth waters.

Daku slowly smiles, touched that Conch could think such a thing. “You asked me if I had a mate, little one. I’m no stranger to rutting.”

“Oh…” a crimson Conch replies, looking down at the keys, suddenly newly determined to remember another piece. He plays quietly for a few moments, and Daku allows him the reprieve, not wanting to overwhelm the youth when they’re just getting to know each other. Max has been gone for a bit, but the knot will take a while to soften, so he has a bit more intimate time with Conch before they’ll need to figure out sleeping arrangements and build a fire for warmth. “Why do you wear your hair short?”

It’s a desperate diversion, but Daku is willing to play along. “Me and Gadget aren’t savages or War Boys. One wears their hair too long, the other too short. I suppose we’re in the middle somewhere,” he chuckles, flashing a smile. Time is dwindling, so he decides to be bold and reaches to tuck a wavy lock behind Conch’s ear, “I like yours.”

The youth stops playing again, and is flushed and lovely when he tentatively gazes at Daku. Perhaps it’s been a long time since an alpha, and not a very nice alpha, at that, paid him heed. His gaze is pleading, asking if Daku is just teasing him. _I wouldn’t ever. Not with you_. Suddenly, The Dag’s voice breaks through their serenity: “Conch! Come help me with supper. _Now_ ,” she adds, leaving no doubt about her intent.Daku looks over to see her looming threateningly nearby and he holds up his hands as if being robbed. There’s a dog at her side, a not-so-subtle warning. _If she doesn’t rip our your throat, the beast will_. Too fresh, too quickly.

“Forgive me, siren. It’s been too long since I shared pleasant company,” he chuckles, daring a wink at Conch, worth the risk because the youth flushes and smiles before hurrying away.

* * *

“Male alphas are trouble,” The Dag warns as they swaddle the babies, post-changing, pre-nap. 

Conch pretends not to hear, but her icy gaze follows him until he’s forced to look at her and agree with a sigh, “I know that. I’m not dumb.” Because that’s something of a sore spot for him. Toast is the smartest, followed by Splendid (Walhalla keep her), then Larrikin, right down the line to him. Or so he’s ranked inside his own mind. Capable is always saying he’s smarter than he knows, but Conch doesn’t think so. Even when he was learning to read, the letters kept dancing around the page, switching order and confusing him.

“‘Course you’re not,” The Dag smirks, “But alphas are tricky. They cast spells. Mirages.” She waves her fingers through the air, spooky-like. She’s trying to scare him away from Daku, but there’s no need. Nothing is going on between them. Nothing _can_ go on between them. After all, he has Rabi to think about. The fat little baby watches him with wide, light eyes. He grins and leans down to press a kiss to a chubby cheek and Rabi makes a wet sound with his mouth. A baby kiss. One day, he’s going to shoot up like a weed, just like Conch did, and be rail thin. Or maybe he’ll be built like Joe: thick and strapping.

He doesn’t want to think about that.

“Let’s help them slumber.”

* * *

Gadget brought a bag of spare parts with which he quickly builds a makeshift _irrigation system_ (his words) that automatically waters The Dag’s crops. It’s so impressive that not even she can think of anything nasty to say during inspection of the green rows. “It’ll do, I suppose,” she mutters and Gadget doesn’t stop smiling for a long time. The goodwill vanishes when he makes the mistake of trying to touch The Dag’s bag of seeds. She intercepts him and hisses until he stumbles backwards, fleeing to the safety of the truck.  

At dusk, he pulls a pair of clay jugs from the flatbed drug and Daku pauses from the task of gathering wood for a nighttime fire to wince.

“Spirit water,” he explains and Conch replies with surprised, arched brows. “War Boys brew it at the Citadel. Strong. Don’t drink it,” he chuckles.

Gadget alights with a single confident step, not even bothering to eye the ground upon descent. His smile is radiant and Conch notes the teeth are bright and straight. There must be a tooth doctor living in Bartertown. “Aw, don’t spoil the fun, brother. Glory me, we’ve earned a bit of the devil’s water, hm?” He grins at Conch, who quickly looks away and pretends to straighten the drift wood that substitutes for benches around the fire. The Dag’s words ricochet in his skull: _alphas cast spells_.

* * *

As is his custom, Max sleeps after the rut. And he dreams. He’s flying over the desert, ripples of sand passing beneath, ahead a giant storm cloud of dust lit up by bolts of lightning. Max flails, trying to create enough wind resistance to stop, but he can’t. The storm speeds towards him, the black clouds yawn, a jaw threatening to eat him alive. 

He’s kneeling in sand, arms folded over his head in a coward’s slump, and when he peeks out there’s a pair of black boots in front of him. Two muscular legs sprout from them, attached to a warrior’s torso, capped with a horned helmet. The Rock Rider Chief. A swathe of cloth and dark goggles hide his face, but the crown curiously tilts to the side, as if silently sizing up Max. 

Small hands on his skull and Max jerks to the side, afraid (as he always is) that this is real and one of the War Boys has snuck up on him. Maybe the wives, Arthur, and Furiosa were the dream. Maybe Immortan Joe is still the king of the Citadel and nothing has really changed. His daughter stands over him, face a calm, blank mask. He furrows his brow, waiting. Finally, she leans forward and whispers into his ear: “Bring Arthur.”

The storm cloud is still above and releases a microburst of frigid aid that plummets like a waterfall and collides with his daughter’s skull. She explodes into sand particles that are quickly scattered by the wind.

Max awakes in darkness and hands immediately seize his wrists, which are swinging wildly through the air. He forgets where he is. His brain says he’s back in a cage, waiting for the War Boys to shock him in the goolies again. The War Boys are the ones grabbing him. They’re trying to drag him off to harvest his body parts, but Max won’t let them. He surges forward and tries to head butt his attacker, but misses. There’s a high-pitched whining sound. A baby. Why is there a baby?

“Max… _Max_ …” Cool hands on his face, stroking. War Boys wouldn’t treat him so kindly.

 _Arthur_.

He collapses onto the bedding and gasps, blinking until details come into focus: the clay curve of their hut, a paper figurine made by The Dag that hangs by the entrance to “ward off evil spirits,” in her words; Arthur’s concerned face, lovely and fair against the black void. “Come back to me,” he whispers, cupping Max’s burning face. The baby is Tallara. He must have been shouting in his sleep and woken her. Arthur should tend to her. A baby’s cry can carry for long distances and attract enemy tribes. He grunts and sits up slowly, which is when the orange glow catches his eye. “Max!” Arthur cries when he charges outside, a pistol already in his hand by the time he realizes it’s a bonfire. He slept all afternoon and now the rest of the village is gathered around the flames, staring back at him like he’s crazy.

He _is_ crazy.

Gadget casually lifts a jug into the air, waving it in his direction. “Come sit with us.” No judgment in his voice. He supposes both men have met their fair share of mad road warriors. There’s a stick with skewed bits of meat running across the flames, cooking the rats. It smells wonderful. Soft whining snags his attention, and when he looks back at the hut, Arthur walks out cradling Tallara, both of them wrapped in cream-colored linens. Max stuffs the gun into the back of his trousers and exhales, embracing them both, arms around Arthur, the baby between them. Her face is wet and she’s sniffling miserably, which makes Max chuckle.

“Sorry I scared you,” he mumbles and presses a kiss to her brow. Her hair is dark and unruly like Arthur’s, not to mention having inherited her father’s unimpressed gaze. 

Arthur is watching him closely, brow furrowed in concern. “What was it this time?”

Oftentimes, he shares the nightmares with his mate. Max isn’t sure why. Maybe it helps to describe and categorize them, as if exploring their meaning will help expunge their dark malice from his brain. For some reason, he doesn’t want to share this time, so shakes his head and Arthur knows not to push the matter. Instead, they join the tribe at the fire, and it does not escape his attention that Daku is seated beside Conch. Tallara has stopped crying now and gazes around curiously before her gaze falls (and remains) upon the flames. Nighttime fires are her favorite event. A set of hand drums rests beside a very tipsy Gadget and Max frowns at them: “Don’t cause a ruckus,” he mutters, nodding pointedly towards the hills. Noise travels fast across the desert and they don’t want to attract the attention of the canyon people.

Gadget waves his hand through the air. “Bah! They know we’re here. Can’t…you can’t deprive yourself because of fear.” Dog is seated beside the alpha, apparently having been charmed by their new guest, or perhaps hoping for meat scraps. Max tries not to feel bitter about it.

Daku reaches to the side and takes the jug from him. “That’s enough for you, mate,” he murmurs with a chuckle, throwing a wink to Conch before taking a swig from the jug. The wince means it’s strong and Max shakes his head when Daku offers the spirits. “Go on,” the alpha encourages, “It’ll soothe your nerves.”

The offer is tempting, but Max doesn’t want to drink because Arthur won’t be able to partake since he’s still nursing. However, the omega surprises him by nudging his ribs with an elbow. “Go on,” he whispers and Max dumbly blinks, sure he’s read his lips wrong. Dimples slowly blossom and he nods, repeating the words. Must be more stressed than he originally thought if even his mate is suggesting he take a few swigs. Max mumbles acquiescence and accepts the jug, throwing back a couple burning gulps before relinquishing the jug back to Daku.

The alcohol pleasantly warms his body, and slowly the horror of the dream leaves him. At some point during the evening, the babies fall asleep and the omegas line them up in front of a log so they can safely slumber. Not even Gadget’s drunken tapping on the drums wakes them. “At least play something we can dance to,” The Dag challengingly sneers and Gadget grins, spine straightening before unleashing a frenzied, rhythmic tune.

She leaps up and dances wildly, long blonde hair whipping in the night, limbs gangly and unseemly but free. Arthur has told him tales of The Dag’s dancing when Conch used to play the piano in the vault. Dog’s tail thumps excitedly and he jumps up, barking and chasing at her heels. “You should play,” Daku encourages, reading Max’s mind. Conch shyly shakes his head until Gadget shouts in agreement. He winces, glancing again at the babies who remain blissfully asleep. There are so many reasons to tell the alphas and The Dag to be quiet: enemy tribes, the children’s little ears, but everyone is smiling and Gadget is right: The canyon folk know where they are. What difference will a little merriment make?

After Arthur, The Dag, and even Max (monosyllabically) encourage the youngest omega, he relents and walks the short distance to his piano. Clumsily, he joins Gadget’s drums, but eventually they discover an agreeing rhythm and the result is so infectious that Arthur leaps to his feet and grabs Max by the hands. “No—“ he sputters, but it’s too late. Arthur grips the linens around his legs and whips them up, kicking his heels and whooping—The Dag bellowing in answer, a mad smile plastered across her face. His mate is all bare, long limbs and hypnotizing hips, undulating and grinding against him, and Max is too stunned to move.

“Glory me, road warrior! Don’t let a lovely omega dance all by his lonesome!” Gadget cries over the drums, laughing as though he’s told a very funny joke.

Growl is lost beneath the drums, and Max is prepared to threaten Gadget’s life when Arthur suddenly spins and presses his firm rear against the alpha’s crotch. His dark head tosses back, resting against Max’s shoulder, pink mouth hot and wet against his cheek. “Touch me,” he breathes and Max grips his hips, following their sway. He’s no dancer, but doesn’t need to be. Max isn’t sure what they’re doing could even be called dancing, though he’s enjoying it. His arms wrap around the omega’s waist, pinning him in place as they move together, the sway becoming a grind, and Arthur seals their lips together in a kiss. Eyes slip shut, and for a brief moment Max forgets where they are until The Dag whoops. An eye cracks open and he spots her grinning face.

“You two go at it like rabbits!” she cackles, jug swooping through the air. When did she pick it up? How long has she been drinking? _How long have they been dancing?_

He glances across the fire and sees Daku sitting on the bench beside Conch, who is still delicately plucking the keys as a roaringly drunk Gadget thunders on the drums. He almost expects the alpha’s fist to slice through the cow hide.

“Don’t stop,” Arthur breathes against his neck. His mate’s eyes are glassy, pink lips swollen. Max’s fingers grip the linen-covered hipbones. _I won’t, beauty_. Tallara is still by the log, sandwiched by Rabi and Gurumarra: three unmoving bundles. Still asleep. “Max…” He’s only taken two swigs, but feels drunk and knows it’s not just from the spirits. It’s Arthur’s scent, the heat of his body, the supple curve of his rear. He’s hard and grinds hips forward, pressing the shaft’s outline between the cheeks until he knows it must hurt a little, but Arthur is rapturous, head tosses back, lips stretched into a blissful smile. Teeth sink into the curve of the omega’s neck and he moans, loudly enough that the others must hear them, but Max doesn’t care. No one says anything, and even The Dag has stopped cackling, so they continue to dance as though they’re the only two left in this miserable world.

* * *

Arthur and Max are two writhing silhouettes and Conch looks away, face warm as he focuses on the keys. Seated beside him is a polite Daku, who moves only when he takes another swig from the jug. The alphas are getting increasingly tipsy, but the man beside him has managed to maintain the most poise. At the bottom rung is Gadget, who drunkenly plays the drums—except, now that he pauses to listen, Conch realizes he’s _not_ playing. Glancing over to the fire, he spots a blur: Gadget sprinting, darting back and forth for some reason. And now that his gaze narrows, Conch can see The Dag chasing the poor alpha around, gleefully cackling. 

“Help!” the man shouts, eyes wild.

The Dag bears her teeth, giddy from the chase: “Don’t be such a smeg! I’m friendly! Tell him, Conch!”

He smiles and looks away, knowing the question is a rhetorical one. The Dag is a loyal sister, but he would never describe her as _friendly_. Gadget yelps again and takes off, running for the dunes as Daku howls with laughter: “Never thought I’d see the day where you ran from an omega, brother!” He watches the figures diminish into darkness. Dog sniffs around the fire a bit longer and then trots off to find some trouble (most likely bothering Goat). When Daku leans close, his spirit-soaked breath washes in a warm wave across the omega’s cheek. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”

At first, he imagines the man is referring to Dog but then realizes he means the other alpha. Conch smiles because Daku sounds genuinely concerned. “She’s only playing.” Though, it has been a long time since The Dag was with an alpha. She’s hungry for some contact and set sights on poor Gadget. On the other hand, he’s seen his sister shed her linens and swim naked in the Immortan’s underground pools. She’s a glory in the nude: tall, curvy, and shiny. Gadget will stop his fussing once he gets a gander.

When he looks to the fire again, Arthur and Max are gone—most likely off to rut. Sometimes at night, Conch sprawls across his back and listens to the sounds emanating from their hut. He can’t help it—there’s nothing else to listen to. Those are the moments that he feels the loneliest. Arthur makes high-pitched keening noises and sounds so, so happy. Conch has never felt that. Certainly not with Immortan, and he doesn’t feel nostalgic for those days, but a shameful part of him does miss the attention and feeling prized and valued by an alpha, even a monster like Joe.

His fingertips delicately jiggle the high keys, percolating for a moment before ending the piece is a nice, cleansing major chord. An optimistic note for an optimistic night. He offers a shy smile when Daku claps. “I should see to Rabi,” he says, hoping it’s a tactful way to leave the piano, aware the alpha remains close behind, following him back to the fire. Conch sighs when he sees Gurumarra beside Rabi. Arthur and Max must have taken Tallara back to their hut. “She leaves him sometimes. Says it’s good for alphas to be independent.” He looks to the black landscape. Who knows where they’ve gone? The baby’s face is peaceful, a serene pale mask with two black smudges where the eyelashes mash against chubby cheeks. “I’ll take him back to my hut, ‘til The Dag is back.” Daku hums in agreement, picking up the child so Conch only has to carry Rabi. He has to stoop slightly walking through the entrance, but once inside Conch can stand upright and move around, gently nestling the babies in their sleeping area. Gurumarra barely stirs, but Rabi starts to fuss, kicking his legs, eyes opening as he softly whines. “I know. Okay…” Conch glances over his shoulder, “I have to feed him.” 

Daku nods, distracted as his bandaged fingers gently touches a hanging ornament The Dag made—a woman’s dancing white figure, fabric billowing around her body. His sister says she’s supposed to be Splendid, meant to look over him and his son at night. “Don’t mind me,” the alpha says, discreetly turning his back to grant Conch some privacy.

He hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. Conch assumed the alpha would leave, but he’s still here. Rabi whines again, reaching for him, and Conch forgets to be self-conscious, working the linens off his shoulders to expose his small breasts. Unlike his father, Rabi isn’t shy at all about latching onto a breast and happily sulking. He smiles slightly, smoothing the little tuft of dark hair and watching the boy’s shining eyes. His breasts are smaller these days, very nearly dry, but he’s stubborn and doesn’t want to ask The Dag to breastfeed his child, even though she has more than enough milk for two babies. Conch tries to eat more to produce milk, but food is scarce, and even when Max does bring back a large kill, he can’t eat enough to keep up with demand. After all, Rabi is a firstborn, most likely an alpha, and therefore possesses a ravenous appetite.

“You must have birthed him very young.”

Surprised, Conch glances over his shoulder to discover Daku watching them. His face warms, suddenly self-conscious again because the alpha has been watching him this whole time, even though exposing his back is hardly a scandal that will keep him locked out of Walhalla. “I was sixteen,” he mumbles, wondering why he phrased it as though it was a long time ago. Keeping track of his birth, and Rabi’s, feels like a pointless vanity project. Most people don’t know their ages, but Conch knows because the summer he was taken from his village during a War Boy raid, his mother had cupped is face and said: _My, you’ve grown so strong in your nine years_. He counted every day he was apart from his mother, and soon Toast created a calendar where they could carefully document the days, months, and years. 

Daku doesn’t respond, but appears thoughtful and hums, looking back to the figurine when it’s time for Conch to cover himself again and swaddle the baby. Rabi’s belly is full and he burps in satisfaction, Conch smiling as he wipes away a bit of spittle from his chin. “Good?” he asks, chuckling when Rabi blows a spit bubble with his lips.

He places the boys together on the bedding and watches as Rabi’s eyes close and the boy falls asleep. Conch partly expects to turn around to an empty hut, the alpha probably having grown bored and slipped out to drink more by the fire, but when he turns around Daku is still standing there observing The Dag’s dancing woman. “I like this kind of art,” he hums, “What’s it called? Ab…Ab…”

“Abstract.”

He snaps his fingers and points at Conch. “Abstract!” The alpha remembers the babies at the last second and winces, covering his mouth, afraid he’s woken them.

Conch smiles slowly. “Don’t worry. They’re dead to the world. Immortan’s children are heavy sleepers.” There’s a bitter taste in his mouth and he’s immediately sorry for saying the words aloud. Calling Rabi _Immortan’s child_ transports him back to the vault where he spent his nights locked in a room waiting for a crazy man to come rape him. He stands and walks towards the door, trying to dream up a way to politely ask Daku to leave. It was silly to think an alpha would be interested in him, a warlord’s leftover scraps. It was naive to believe he still had something to offer a man like Daku.

A large hand finds his hipbone, cupping it with surprising strength, and suddenly the full length of Daku’s warm, solid body presses against him. “You’re a tiny thing, aren’t you?” Warm breath on his cheek. “Can’t believe you could even carry a child.” Spirits blend with the alpha’s heady scent and Conch swallows thickly, reflexively reaching up to push the man away, but his hands simply remain resting on his broad chest, appreciating the solid plain and the warmth radiating through his garb of linen and leather.

“I’m as tall as you,” he mumbles, feeling oddly defensive even though it’s clear Daku is being playful.

The man laughs, other hand cupping his waist and pulling him close so they’re pressed together. “It’s a good thing,” he whispers, kissing the corner of his lips. Conch doesn’t remember how to move—alphas have always affected him this way—but this is the first time he welcomes the biological reaction. He sighs when Daku finally kisses him, pleased by the expert command with which the alpha grips the back of his neck and waist, mouth tasting of spirits and smoke. “Come here..” he mumbles, pushing and pulling until they collapse onto the bedding. “Let me..” the man insists, pushing the linens off his shoulders and kissing down the middle of his breastbone.

Conch sprawls on his back, breathing heavily, glancing over to the babies to make sure they’re still asleep. They are. How in the world is he going to stay silent during this? His skin is too hot, heart hammering too fast. He feels like a dam ready to explode. Daku’s plush, warm mouth kisses over a breast, cheeky tongue coaxing his nipple hard, the mouth suckling. “No..” he whispers, irrationally afraid Daku will drink the last of his milk and he won’t be able to feed Rabi. He writhes, reaching to push him away, but the alpha grips his wrists.

“Just a taste,” he whispers, sealing lips around the bud and suckling until a few sweet drops touch his tongue and he hums. “Omega’s milk tastes so bloody good. I see why the War Boys sold it to the other tribes.” Daku kisses Conch’s breast, keeping his promise by moving on and lavishing the other bits of him with similar attention.

Fingers run through the alpha’s hair, enjoying the feel of soft, longer strands against his skin. The War Boys all had shaved heads and he was always too afraid to touch The Immortan (not that he wanted to). The thought of his former captor sobers him and he eases up onto an elbow, watching Daku push aside the linens to kiss along his stomach. “I haven’t…” he isn’t quite sure how to explain it, “…in a long time.” And the last time he was frozen in fear and crying.

Daku pauses, only long enough to murmur: “We’ll go slow. Tell me if I should stop,” before diving back down, sucking welts into pale flesh. It’s such a miraculously simple solution that Conch sighs and collapses onto his back, a wave of relief washing over him. _Of course_. Daku isn’t like the Immortan. If Conch tells him to stop, he will. He smiles, a palm smoothing across his brow, gazing at the hut’s arched ceiling until Daku’s face fills his vision. “Why’re you smiling?” he asks, grinning, dipping down to press a warm kiss to his mouth.

Conch cups his face, a strange ache in his chest, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s happy. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

The alpha hums, kissing him again, more deeply, body heavy as he presses against Conch’s supine figure and coaxes his legs apart. “Me too,” he whispers just below the omega’s ear, a calloused hand exploring between his thighs, groping and stroking until Conch is breathing heavily and squirming against the digits. A finger sinks inside and he inhales deeply, spreading his legs a bit more and focusing on the strange sensation. Immortan never prepared him like this. “Oh..” he exhales, trembling and glancing down to see the glistening insides of his thighs. 

“Good…” Daku exhales, leaning back a bit to yank at his attire. There’s _so much_ in the way: leather jacket, the pistol holders, shirt, belt, trousers, and Conch’s fingers pull and yank demandingly until he catches a glimpse of the alpha’s hard length and gasps. Daku smirks, gripping Conch’s hand and pressing it to his cock, so he wraps his fingers around it and strokes slowly, apparently the correct response because he grunts approvingly. “Am I bigger than the Immortan?” the alpha asks playfully, but there’s a breathless catch in his voice that makes Conch feel warm all over.

“Much bigger,” he smiles. _Everything about you is better than him_. The words free something in Daku, inspiring him to dive down and kiss Conch roughly, biting at his lips and rolling hips so the head of his cock presses against the soaked entrance. “Slow…slow…” Conch begs, squirming, casting furtive glances to the babies to make sure they’re not awake.

Sucking in deep breaths, Daku obeys and presses just the head inside, pausing to allow Conch to acclimate as he strokes the omega’s prick which is leaking steadily against his stomach. “Glory me, you’re tight,” he grunts, licking a free hand and pawing between his legs again to inspire another tremble and flow. Conch imagines he’s a piano and Daku is learning how to play. They writhe together, the sensation of solid, slick flesh grinding against him intoxicating, lulling him into a stupor until the alpha pushes forth, breaching him to the hilt. “Ah!” Conch cries, legs clenched around Daku’s trunk, fingers digging into his biceps.

Daku covers his mouth and they both glance to the babies, who remain still bundles. “Shh..” The alpha presses a finger to his lips and Conch nods weakly, even though he’s unsure he can keep that promise. He bites his bottom lip, eyes rolling back as the alpha languidly pumps his hips, the trickle now a steady stream coating the curve of his ass.

“Oh…” Conch moans again, a hand covering his eyes when Daku leans down to suck on his breast again. The twin mounds bounce slightly as the alpha rides him, and he can’t watch the man suckle again or he’ll come too early. He peeks through his fingers and sees the alpha licking up a few pearls of milk from a pink nipple. Their gazes meet and Daku grabs his wrists, pinning them above Conch’s head so he can’t hide and thrusts sharply. Head thrown back, he cries again, and this time the alpha lets him, teeth sinking into his neck as Daku bucks and snorts in exertion. His head swims, colors dancing and twirling behind his eyelids, and the alpha is babbling but he can’t make sense of the words for a bit: “—let me…let me do it. Knot you…”

Daku is asking his permission to knot and he nods dumbly, unable to speak as he bounces across the bedding, a deep ache pulsating in his pelvis.

He shouldn’t. Conch knows this is how he got pregnant the first time, but he doesn’t want things to end just yet. The idea of Daku pulling out and leaving him empty is too enormously depressing. Daku grabs his waist and flips him over and Conch has the presence of mind to climb onto his knees before the alpha sets a brutal pace rutting him again. Hands clamp on his hips, dragging him back and forth, and he bites his forearm to keep from squealing. “ _Christ_ ,” the alpha growls, slapping the side of his ass, fingers digging into the flesh and groping it like clay. 

When he shoots across his belly, Conch can’t speak though his lips part and he’s fairly sure that pitiful, keening noise is coming from him. He wants to tell the alpha to fill him up, but instead focuses on clenching the inner muscles. The alpha shouts and a side-glance confirms he miraculously hasn’t woken the babies. Knees collapse and Conch grunts when the alpha pins him to the bedding, wetly thrusting and writhing until he suddenly stills. A big cock means a big knot and a tear forms at the corner of his eye as the alpha stretches him. In apology, Daku kisses along his shoulder blades, whispering filthy things about his anatomy that Conch knows he means as a compliment.

They collapse to their sides, panting heavily, wet and spent, Daku’s arms tightly holding him. Spots of light flash before his eyes and Conch watches them dance, a smile stretching his lips when the alpha nuzzles his face and jawline. “Wanted to do that the moment I saw you.” Conch smiles, remembering the truck and his piano, Daku standing beside it, handsome and a little terrifying. “What a waste. Creature like you shouldn’t be living in a hut. You should be back at the Citadel, guarded by an army and mortars.” The alpha’s fingertips graze the mess of his stomach, down to his hipbone where they trace Immortan’s brand.

Conch’s gaze follows his ministrations, and they both silently consider the mark for a moment. Perhaps Daku regrets his words, since they parallel Immortan’s plans for Conch a little too closely. He doesn’t want the alpha to feel badly, though. Daku is nothing like Joe, and the impulse to protect is not the same as the desire to possess. “I don’t hate it,” he whispers, referring to the branding. “I know I should, but it’s a part of me—like everything else that happened. I’m not ashamed.”

“Nor should you be,” Daku murmurs, pressing a kiss below his ear, breathing in the omega’s scent from damp locks. The tender moment turns cheeky when Daku grips his hips and rocks forward, coaxing a delighted gasp from Conch’s lips. “Let’s sleep so I can rest and ravage you again before sunrise.”

The plan sounds good to Conch. They kiss lazily until too heavy with drowsiness, Daku buries his face against the omega’s neck, and they fall asleep.

* * *

Max’s back is sore from their over-enthusiastic rutting last night. He was drunk and half-mad from Arthur’s teasing, so by the time they got to the hut, he hiked up the omega’s linens and fucked him against the wall. He remembers the night in flashes: Arthur’s legs wrapped round his waist, bouncing, crying out so loudly that Max was sure The Dag or someone would tell them to be quiet. He has no memory of what happened to Tallara, and he nearly shoots out of bed until spotting her wrapped up and safe in her usual spot. Arthur must have put her to bed before they coupled. 

His trousers are wrapped around his ankles and he grunts with effort to pull them back up. By the time he’s presentable, Arthur has rolled onto his back and smiles up at him. “The stallion awakes.”

Max glowers. “Hurt my back,” he sulks, a bit deliberately because he knows Arthur will coo and touch his face, which he does, leaning up to press a sweet kiss to his lips.

“My brave warrior. A big breakfast will make you feel better,” he suggests, climbing off the bedding to clean himself and wrap fresh linens around his frame. He picks up Tallara and slides her into the sling of the linens, tying the fabric at his back so she has a nice, comfy swing to rest in against his breast. “Let’s go pick some berries for everyone. Maybe spear a few rats. Nice breakfast.”

Berries are one of the only foods The Dag hasn’t had much success growing. Max is prepared to tell Arthur he’ll go—that Arthur should stay at camp and build a fire to cook the meat—but then he remembers the dream. His daughter, her voice: _Bring Arthur_. It means nothing. Only a dream. Then he recalls the projectile that missed his skull by the serendipitous placement of his hand. _No such thing as coincidences_. He grunts in acquiescence, fetching his jacket. “We’ll walk east. There’s a bush that bears fruits that way.”

It’s too hot and he regrets bringing his mate and child along for the trek, but when he glances at Arthur, the omega has a pleasant look on his face and Tallara is slumbering against his breast. “It’ll be good to eat berries. For the milk,” Arthur explains. The more he eats, the more nurturing he can provide their child. Max walks on, newly motivated, and soon they discover the bush peppered with small red dots. Arthur plucks one from a green leaf and inspects it. The foliage is strangely placed, like a miracle sprouted from the unforgiving oven of sand, much like the tree that saved them from the Bullet Farmer. _No such thing as coincidences_. Arthur pops the berry into his mouth and smiles. “They’re good.”

For many years, radiation poisoned the land, but it seems the earth has recycled the spoiled soil and is growing fruit again. They pick berries for a long time, until Max’s brow is coated with sweat and rivulets trickle down his neck. Arthur and Tallara are too fair to be in the sun so long, so he monosyllabically suggests they go back, and thankfully his mate agrees, perhaps also concerned about exposing Tallara to the sun. 

He leads the way back, Arthur half a stride behind until Dog’s barking drifts over the dunes. Max smirks, imagining the hung-over alphas complaining about the noise, until the barking grows more frantic and a _rat-tat-tat-tat_ and scream pierce the heavens. They exchange an alarmed look before Max charges forward, up the side of the dune, and looks west to their village. A black column of smoke extends into the sky and the roar of engines fills his ears. _The canyon people. The Rock Rider Chief._

“No,” Max gasps, running so fast he almost falls head-over-heels, but catches his balance at the last moment. Almost too late, he realizes Arthur is following him. He wields around and grabs the omega’s wrists, too violently dragging him to the sand and jarring Tallara so she begins to cry. “Stay here,” he growls, not in the mood for compromising. Fortunately, Arthur doesn’t challenge him. In fact, his eyes are huge and terrified as he clutches their child and desperately tries to muffle her wailing.

Max sprints the rest of the way, charging into the burning camp. The huts are in flames, along with the crops, canyon warriors tearing through the village on their motorcycles. There’s about twenty of them. Far too many to fight on their own. He spots Gadget in the center of camp, an automatic rifle balanced on his knee as he steadily shoots at the invaders _rat-tat-tat-tat._ The Dag is trying to shield her crops, throwing rocks at the men and screaming like a banshee until one of the men tries to grab her. Gadget shoots him dead and Dog bites the corpse’s leg, shaking him to make sure the job is done. Gadget fells three alphas in the time it takes for Max to glance his way, wielding around just in time to duck below the blade of a machete swung by a canyon warrior. Max pulls out his gun, aims and fires three times before the rider falls from his bike. He swears beneath his breath and reloads. He’s always been a bad shot. They need Furiosa here. _I told you I needed more men_ , he bitterly thinks before aiming at another rider as he zooms across camp with something balanced across the bike. _Goat_. Kicking and braying. 

“That’s mine!” Max shouts and shoots four times, all misses, before Daku charges out of no where and tackles the rider off his bike. He straddles the man and punches him so hard the face shield of his helmet shatters. And he keeps punching, even as Goat stumbles to his hooves and runs off, back towards the safety of the water. Daku punches, and punches, rearing back and using both fists like hammers until his knuckles are bloody and the rider’s face is nothing but pulp. The rider is dead, but Daku screams, grabbing him by the vest and shaking, demanding something. Max can’t hear what until he watches the last of the riders retreat over the hill and stumbles forward.

“Where is he?! Where did they take Conch?”

Max surveys the camp with wild eyes. Distantly, he hears babies crying. The children are still here, but they took the youngest omega. He shouts and throws the empty pistol to the earth, tearing at his hair and covering his face until someone touches him, peeling away his hands. Arthur. His face is a mask of panic. “Where’s Conch?” Max shakes his head, unable to answer, and watches as Arthur darts off to the burning hut that used to belong to his brother. He knows Conch isn’t inside. 

The Dag is carrying bowls of water to the huts, quenching the fires that have only managed to singe the roofs. Her crops were not so fortunate. She collapses by the fire pit to tend to two lumps, no doubt the children. Daku is covered in blood by the time he stands and stumbles over to him. “Where were you?” he growls, wild and furious in a way that surprises Max. Yes, their home has been damaged, but Daku has come completely unhinged.

Max doesn’t want to say he was picking berries, so he spits back: “Where were _you_? Why didn’t you guard Conch?”

The other alpha sucks in a breath like Max just punched him in the stomach. “I was—I _would have_. He went outside to start a fire and they came too fast. They grabbed him first—” Daku shakes his head and stares down at his bloody fingers, clenching and releasing them slowly. Max realizes the other man is completely shellshocked. 

“We’ll get him back. Take the truck and drive to the canyon,” Max says, speaking before his brain has a chance to catch up, but the words pull Daku from his stupor and he nods, all the intensity and focus returning to his gaze.

Gadget stalks up to them, breathing heavily, rifle draped over his shoulder. “This is not how I like to wake up from a hangover, brothers.”

“Get the truck ready,” Max spits, momentarily distracted when Arthur returns, Tallara squirming and sniffling against his breast. 

“I’m coming with you,” the omega declares.

He laughs because the idea is so ridiculous. “Uh, no.” Max crouches down to pick up the gun, pop out the dead clip, and jam a fresh one in place. When he straightens up, Arthur’s gaze is fire and daggers. “ _No_ ,” he says again and notices Gadget and Daku have skillfully slipped away under the guise of preparing the truck. He looks over to the water and sighs when he notices Conch’s piano, turned over onto its side, but perhaps salvageable. “You’ll stay here with the baby.”

“The Dag can watch Tallara.”

“And what if they come back, hm? She’ll be here by herself defending three babies.”

That shuts up the omega. His jaw audibly clicks as it closes and Arthur’s nostrils flare because he’s so angry. Max sighs and grips the back of his neck, pulling him close to press a kiss to his mate’s burning brow. _I know you’re fierce, my beauty. But I can’t lose you too. You and our child are the only ones I can’t bear losing._ “Protect Tallara,” he instructs.

He can tell Arthur wants to fight more, but time is a precious commodity, so he gently strokes their daughter’s cheek and softly concedes: “Okay.” A thoughtful pause before he levels him with a blazing gaze: “Make them pay.”

Max almost smiles and hums in agreement.

* * *

The last thing he remembers is crouching by the fire pit. Then the sound of engines, followed by a sharp pain at the back of his skull, and darkness. When Conch wakes, he thinks maybe that was a bad dream because he’s inside his hut. Vision swims for a second, but when it sharpens, he realizes—no, not _his_ hut. A different hut—one with a large rug and silk pillows and blankets scattered around the base. He sits up slowly, gingerly touching the back of his skull. Gradually, details come back to him. He’s been taken, _abducted_ , by the canyon people. The linens are still cinched and he’s not sore so they haven’t violated him. The pile of silks moves at the opposite end of the hut and Conch realizes a man is seated on a chair—a _throne—_ looking at him. 

He gasps and scrambles backwards, legs hugged to his chest. “Who are you?” he demands, wishing his voice hadn’t fearfully warbled.

Of course, he already knows the answer. Who else wears a horned helmet? The Chief reaches up and removes the headdress. Conch is surprised by the handsomeness of his face: a strong jaw, unmarred dark skin, bright, intelligent eyes. The Chief is not the monster Conch has imagined so many times. “I am the Rock Rider Chief, little one. First of his name. Lord of the canyon. And you are the concubine of the road warrior who destroyed my home.”

Conch blinks, brain set to a delay, slow to process the words. “Me?” he asks dumbly, pointing to his chest, “N—No, I’m not Larrikin—“

He barely gets the words out before the man leaps to his feet and charges at him. Conch cries out in fear, curling up to protect his face. The man is huge—as tall as the hut and nearly as wide as its entrance. He could probably snap Conch’s neck like a chicken bone. “Lies!” he thunders, “I have a spy who saw you with the road warrior and described you in great detail!” He grabs Conch’s ankle and drags him along the bedding. Thinking the worst, Conch screams and violently kicks, heel catching the Chief square in the jaw but barely fazing him. He steps back, head cocked, considering the omega in amusement. “I have no interest in spilling my seed inside that little cunt of yours,” he quips.

Conch’s face burns as he pulls down the linens to cover his legs, mumbling: “What do you want with me then?”

The Chief wags his finger, as if Conch has just asked a very clever question. “You, little one, are leverage. You’re going to help me negotiate access to the water with the road warrior.”

“But I’m not Larr—“

He doesn’t get the words out this time. This time, the hand of Walhalla’s keeper whips down and slaps him across the face. Conch’s face jerks to the side and he tastes blood. “Enough!” he growls. “Bring me the spy!” There’s commotion from outside the hut before the tapestries part and a young boy shuffles inside. He looks terrified. Conch doesn’t blame him. He gingerly touches his lip and the fingertips come back red. The Chief points at the boy. “Is this the concubine?” he asks, nodding to Conch.

The boy is shaking, would probably piss himself if he wasn’t so dehydrated. A white tongue licks at his cracked lips and he shakes his head. “I can’t be sure. I was far away—“

“Answer!” the Chief thunders.

“Yes! _Yes_. I saw a tall, thin boy with dark hair. It was him. It was him, Chief.”

He finally stops shaking when the Chief rests a large paw on his shoulder. “Well done, child. Leave us.” The boy does and the Chief nods, smug following verification, and Conch has to focus hard on not rolling his eyes. As if he and Larrikin looking similar from a great distance proves anything.

“You’re wrong,” he whispers.

“Those alphas put up a mighty fight over someone who is _not_ the road warrior’s concubine, wouldn’t you say?”

Conch’s face warms. Daku must have gone mad when he saw the men take him. If he wasn’t currently in the clutches of a crazy canyon rider chief, the thought might have even made him happy. But the ray of hope is overshadowed by thoughts of his son. _Rabi_. “You have to let me go. I have to feed my baby.”

“The child will have to wait to suck on those pretty buds of yours,” The Chief chuckles, “You’re not going anywhere. I imagine that your mad mate will be visiting shortly and you’re going to tell him to play nice with me, understand?” And if there was any confusion, the man grips Conch by the hair and tilts back his head, pressing the flat side of a long blade to his throat. “Say yes, my sweet.”

Conch swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing dangerously close to the blade. “ _Yes_.”

* * *

Gadget drives the truck because he’s the most familiar with larger vehicles and Furiosa once said he was the best driver she’d ever met (second to herself, of course). High praise. Not to be taken lightly. Of course, this doesn’t stop Daku from being a backseat driver. He can’t help it. His nerves are on edge, brain supplying endless terrible images of what might be happening to Conch. He’s so, so stupid. How could he have let the omega out of his sight? He stands up slowly from the bed and climbs to the side, calling through the driver’s window. “Why’re you going this way? Cut through the highlands!”  

“I would, brother, but that’ll bring us close to the place formerly known as Bullet Town and there are tribes still there!” Gadget replies, perfectly reasonable. He catches a glimpse of the concerned furrow of Daku’s brow. “Fear not. You’ll be reunited soon. And if not, we are awaited, are we not?” He laughs, as if quoting Joe’s War Boys is the funniest joke ever, missing the glower on Daku’s face as he retreats back to the bed.

Max hums in an unamused way beside him. “Why you say that? Reunited?”

Gadget reveals rows of perfectly white, straight teeth and Max thinks of bleached skulls sitting in beds of sand. “Surely you heard the noises last night. No? Well, even though I was very much preoccupied with our lovely Dag, I heard an earful. Daku and Conch got _very_ well acquainted, let me tell you—”

Max growls and punches the back window where the base of Daku’s head is resting, loud enough to startle the man, who has no idea what they’re discussing and gazes back at him with confused eyes. “Cheeky devil,” he spits, pointing threateningly at him. “I knew he was up to no good!”

“ _Easy_ , brother,” Gadget laughs, fingers drumming upon the wheel, “It was consensual. Why are you so opposed to Conch having a spot of fun, hm?”

“He’s a child,” Max spits, furious at the both of them.

The other alpha’s brows raise in an unimpressed arch. “That is no child. He has a baby. He has _heats_ …”

Max’s face burns and he turns away, mumbling resentfully at the passenger side window. “When he gets back, it’s a chastity belt for him.”

“Oh, ay? Just like the Immortan would have done, hm?” Gadget holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture when Max wields on him, growling. He chuckles, fingers wrapping around the wheel once more when he steers across the dune, axils rattling from the effort. “What omegas want isn’t complicated, mate. They want their independence and to be respected, just like any alpha. Try to control Conch and he’ll resent you forever.”

Quietly, Max considers the landscape. The sun is sinking lower in the sky. Soon, it will be night. At least they’ll have cover of darkness while invading the canyon. He grunts, unwilling to admit aloud that Gadget is right. “How did a serf from Bartertown learn that?”

Gadget smiles widely. “My mother was a feared omega. A bit like your mate, actually. Quite a lady, let me tell you.”

* * *

Arthur shields his eyes and considers the dunes. The alphas won’t be back for ages, if they survive the operation, but he can’t stop checking just in case one of them returns early or the canyon riders come back. He’s breathless, fatigued, and covered with dirt from an afternoon of digging graves in the sand for the fallen riders. Arthur wanted to burn them, but The Dag says that’s bad juju and the riders’ spirits would have haunted them. Instead, they’re buried past the dunes. 

Now, they wait.

The Dag checks in on him. “Babies are down. Dog is sitting by ‘em,” she says, squinting at the golden mounds. “You should get some rest.” Arthur smirks because that’s definitely out of the question. It’s taking every ounce of his self-restraint not to hop on his bike and tear off after the alphas. Doing nothing is making his skin itch, muscles quivering in frustration just beneath the flesh. “Go after them.” He looks to his sister in surprise, her pink mouth curled in a knowing sneer. “Larrikin, I know you. It’s driving you batty to stay here…”

“But you—the babies…I shouldn’t,” he objects weakly. The idea of leaving Tallara makes him feel sick, only slightly more than the idea of allowing Max to enter a battle without him.

“Any alpha comes back here and I’ll be ready,” she says, pulling a long knife from the holster slung around her waist. “Make ‘im eat schlinger,” she smirks, waving the blade through the air. Arthur smiles thinly. The rational part of his brain knows it’s unlikely the canyon riders will return, but he also swore to his mate that he would protect their child and guard the camp. Still, in his heart Arthur knows he’ll never forgive himself if something happens to Max while he was sitting at their camp doing nothing except staring at a troika of sleeping babies. Perhaps sensing his hesitancy, The Dag invokes some of her mystic jargon, “It’s written. There’s a halo around you, brother. You are meant to go and I’ll pray for you,” she nods, as though they’ve reached a consensus. 

She’s strangely optimistic and Arthur senses it has something to do with the strong scent of alpha on her.

* * *

The back of his head throbs and he feels tired so Conch lays down and closes his eyes, but is woken a few seconds later when a blinding pain tears through his skull. “Ah!” he cries, shoving away the young spy. 

“Sorry! Sorry. Chief said I should tend to your head wound. It’s not bad. Stopped bleeding, but I need to put this on it or you’ll get a malady.” He holds up a small tub of ointment.

Conch frowns at him and it. This little sneak is the whole reason he’s here, but also knows fatigue is not a good sign after being hit in the head, and remembers having heard somewhere that sleeping after a head strike is a bad thing. “Go on,” he sighs, bowing his head. It stings when the child smears the cold goo around his skull, but less so this time. “How old are you?” He glances at the child, who offers a funny look in return, so Conch sighs and switches to an easier question: “What are you called?”

“Arvo.” He steps back and caps the ointment.

Conch leans back and considers him. He’s young—a child, really. Terrified of the Chief as Conch was terrified of the Immortan, though he doubts the king of the canyon is anywhere near the level of tyrant as the father of his child. “Well, Arvo. I have a baby I need to get back to, so can you tell me what’s going on out there?” He nods to the curtain of the hut.

The child frowns and looks at the container in his hand. “Nothing. We’re waiting. Chief says your mate is bound to come looking for you. When he comes, the Chief will talk to him, and then he’ll let you go.”

Conch smiles slightly, not bothering to deny the charge that he’s Larrikin this time. The boy is naive thinking the Chief will let him leave so easily. A small, devilish voice in his head suggests that maybe Max won’t come looking for him. Nor Daku. Maybe they’ll decide to cut their losses and leave him in the Chief’s clutches. Larrikin and The Dag are more than capable of repopulating a village. Why would they risk alpha lives just to get back one young, weak, narrow-hipped omega? 

_You little fool. As if he’d love you. You: worn thin and broken._

But then he remembers all the times Larrikin and The Dag refused to leave him behind, and how bravely Max fought in the battle against the War Boys and Immortan. He remembers laying on his back inside Joe’s fortress, on the nights he permitted them to watch the stars through one of the windows, and trading stories with his sisters and brother. Capable would braid them bracelets as Toast ran her fingers through his hair, and sometimes Conch almost felt happy.

He remembers the day Splendid called the meeting and told them they were born free and Joe, nor any alpha, could take that from them. _I’m with you_ , Larrikin had said. _Me too_ , he’d chimed in meekly, not feeling it in his heart at the time. Today, he is liberated from Joe’s grasp because of his sisters and brother, the ones who taught him about freedom before he was ready to fully believe.

Today, he is a prisoner again, in the grasp of a different warlord. _But not for long_ , a quiet optimistic voice suggests.

_They won’t leave me._

* * *

They leave the flatbed and approach the canyon on foot so its engine won’t attract attention. The three alphas crouch behind a large, jagged red rock and peek out to consider the canyon’s entrance. All is quiet, but pre-ambushes usually are. “We can’t approach at the same time,” Daku begins, stating the obvious. They have cover of darkness, but that will only buy them a few moments, at the most. Once the riders open fire, they’ll be woefully outmatched. Max thinks perhaps he should have rode to the Citadel for reinforcements, but that would have taken days, and who knows what the Chief would have done to Conch in the meantime? 

“Hope you’re good shots,” he mumbles, consulting the revolvers to make sure they’re fully loaded. Luckily, Furiosa sent him off with a bag full of ammo.

“We’re not the one who missed four times,” Daku lightly replies, but Max’s spine goes rigid. His poor shooting accuracy is a bit of a sore spot with him. No matter. Max is a brawler, not a marksman. Just get him near enough for close-quarters battling and he’ll tear apart his enemies with bare hands. 

He grunts and points west. “You go…” he says to Daku, waving that way, “And you…” he tells Gadget, gesturing east. Max plans to charge the canyon head-on, the most risky endeavor, which is why he’s assigned it to himself. Arthur’s face flashes before his eyes, post-coital, flushed and shining. Max shoos it away like smoke, but then realizes he’s actually waved his hand through the air and now Daku and Gadget are curiously watching him. He disguises it as a gesture towards the canyon’s mouth. “Kill anyone in your way. We’ll meet up once we’ve taken the Chief hostage.”

A sunny outlook. In all likelihood, they’ll be instantly killed. None of the men acknowledge this possibility. “Right,” Gadget chirps, saluting the other alphas, “See you at the other end.” He darts off into darkness, followed a moment later by Daku, who says nothing to Max. He crouches in the sand and closes his eyes for a moment, pleading to no one in particular _please…please…_ and then takes off for the entrance. Footfalls sound deafening to his own ears, along with puffing breath, and the pounding of his heart. Max is half-deaf, so he imagines the sound must be much louder to the able-bodied. Surely, the riders will know he’s coming. The gear wrapped around his torso rattles and Max waits for it—the split second of pain in the direct center of his forehead, a sniper’s bullet, and then darkness.

It never comes. He darts into the canyon and immediately takes cover behind a boulder in order to look around and assess the situation. The basin is black, but the moon is full and bathes the upper tiers in light, and Max looks for movement, the telltale silhouette of a head—anything indicating how many foes they’re facing. 

Nothing. Just darkness. He advances in a crouch, moving from barrier-to-barrier, forcing deep, calm breaths through his nose. The first rider he comes across is also squatted behind a rock as he carefully aims a rifle to the upper tier where Max sees Daku running. He doesn’t want to shoot just yet—it’ll attract too much attention—so instead grabs the lad by the chin and temple and violently yanks his head, snapping the neck. A sharp exhale, but no yelp (Max thanks his lucky stars), and removes the helmet. It fits over his skull, but paints the landscape a shade darker. He makes the mistake of glancing to the corpse and freezes. The rider was a pup, probably too young for his first heat. Max swears beneath his breath and keeps moving.

Disguised as a rider, he moves a bit more freely, darting between rubble but allowing his head to peek over and survey the landscape. Any observers will mistake him for a canyon brother. Daku zigzags his way up the side of the canyon and Max watches one..two…shadows collapse in his wake. Picking off the guards as he goes. No one has shouted a warning yet. Something shifts in his peripheral and Max aims the commandeered rifle, finger grazing the trigger before he recognizes the shape of Gadget’s outline. A white smile, mock salute, and the alpha runs north. Max doesn’t know why until he flips up the face plate and sees it: the shape of a large hut. 

_Rock Rider Chief._

They’re going to do it. The plan is actually going to work. 

A rat-tat-tat and pockmarked sand freeze Gadget in his tracks, arms thrown above his head in immediate surrender. “Show yourselves!” a disembodied voice demands. Max swears beneath his breath and crouches, looking up to the upper tier until Daku’s figure begrudgingly stands and he throws up his arms as well. _It’s over_. Max sighs and yanks off the helmet. “We know there’s one more! Come out or we’ll gut your kin!” _No use in delaying the inevitable_. He stands and trudges out, hands up, eyes rolling. 

_Hope is always a mistake, you silly smeg._

“Road warrior! You violated the trust of the canyon people. You and your alpha scum have killed our kin! The penalty is death!” 

Max wets his lips and surveys the canyon. Now there are silhouettes everywhere—dozens and dozens of alphas lining the black and blue rocks. He sees now that hope was futile. There was no way they could have overwhelmed the canyon forces and freed Conch on their own. There weren’t this many pups the first time he and Furiosa sped through the Rock Rider Chief’s territory. He must have recruited reinforcements from the Citadel once news of Joe’s death spread through the land. War Boys who know no other life simply moved on to the next strongman, declaring their allegiances elsewhere.

 _Because this is how the world works now_.

“Do it then!” Daku barks during his descent, dust and debris flying up from his heels as he skips down the side of the canyon, landing just behind Gadget. He’s mad with grief, probably assuming the worst about Conch—that he’s dead or been made the Chief’s concubine—and the madness has made him suicidal. Max walks forward because a small, niggling part of him doesn’t want to allow Daku to get them all killed preemptively. Perhaps, the lunatic optimist in him suggests, there’s still a way to negotiate out of this with their lives intact. He’ll still be able to return to Arthur. He’ll still be able to hold Tallara. But the same love he feels for his mate is the force driving Daku, who now points accusingly at the distant figure of their executioner. “What sort of coward abducts an omega? I want to see the face of this mut!”

“Mate, _shut_ it,” Gadget snarls, gazing back at him.

“The penalty is death!” the voice repeats, “Prepare yourselves for the gates of Walhalla!”

Max wishes he could be the type of man who doesn’t care when the world does terrible things to omegas—that he could have shrugged with a mild _oh well_ when Conch was taken—but he’s never been able to do that: remain apathetic in the face of injustice. He swallows, fingers dancing in the air as eyes slip shut and he prays. This is it, then. His final moments. He tries to imagine Arthur’s face. _I’m sorry, beauty. Try not to hate me too much_. Brain does a poor job replicating the feeling of his lips touching Tallara’s brow. _I love you_.

A shot rings out but Max feels no pain. One of the other alphas is dead then, but which one? He cracks open an eye, expecting to see the crumpled figure of Gadget or Daku, but they’re both looking at him in confusion. Maybe their executioner is as piss poor of a shot as Max. Brow furrowed, he looks up the canyon just in time to see the hunched outline give a feeble stumble before he plummets off the side, tumbling like a ragweed until the corpse lands heavy at the basin. Confused shouts ring out, ricocheting around the ravine until an authoritative bass blares: “Silence!” Max immediately understands this is the voice of the Chief. “There is another intruder! Show yourself!” His eyes dart around but he cannot see where the voice is coming from.

Gadget suddenly grabs his arm and points south where there is a black shadow standing against the inky sky. Their savior.

“State your name!” the Chief demands.

“Arthur! Formerly Larrikin of the Citadel, Immortan Joe’s fifth chosen concubine, now free rider in the west, and the Road Warrior’s mate!”

Max very nearly swallows his tongue. Daku and Gadget stare at him with wide, disbelieving eyes and he shrugs slightly, offering a weak smirk. _What can I say, boys? He never did like obeying my orders._

A sea of murmurs, again silenced by their Chief, who understandably doesn’t sound the slightest bit amused that an omega has managed to avoid detection by his forces and execute the man meant to shoot a trio of enemy alphas. “Arthur, free rider, and the intruder alphas: approach the hut at the north for negotiations! Keep your hands above your heads or you will be shot where you stand!”

They walk in a line up the side of the canyon, pausing before the hut in order to be searched by some of the riders. They take all of their guns and knives, including the tiny one Max carries to open cans and cut fruit. He quirks a brow and then shrugs. _Fair enough_. By the time Arthur approaches them, they’re stripped of all weapons and forced into a line with hands behind their heads. He takes in the sight of his mate dressed in riding gear: trousers, boots, leather jacket, pistol holster. A proper road warrior. He very nearly smiles out of fondness. Arthur looks worried, as if fearing Max is cross with him, and he shakes his head to show it’s all right as the riders search him and take the weapons. _I would have expected nothing less from you._ They communicate silently, as is their habit, and by the end of the search Arthur is smiling slightly, knowing he is forgiven.

The objective is now to make it out of the canyon alive. Max could bear his own life being taken, but he will not allow Arthur to be killed. His daughter will not grow up in this miserable world without her parents to watch over her. Even if it means negotiating his own life in order to save Arthur’s, Max will protect his mate. They enter the hut one-by-one, which is large enough to comfortably house all of them, plus the imposing figure of the Chief and the bruised, huddled figure of Conch.

He bursts into tears upon seeing them and rushes to Daku, who makes a wounded noise and embraces him, gently touching his marred face before sneering at the Chief: “Is this how they do things in the canyon? Hit omegas?”

The Chief removes his helmet and cradles it under an arm. “He denied being Larrikin. I thought he was lying.” His gaze slides over to Arthur, the real Larrikin, and the Chief smirks: “You’re an omega? Glory me. World’s changing. First Furiosa takes the Citadel, now this,” he laughs, shaking his head.

No one is sure how to react. Max was prepared for mostly anything, but not the Chief making jovial banter. Daku, for his part, isn’t buying the charming act. He points a threatening finger. “I swear, if you violated him, I will personally send you to Walhalla.”

The Chief’s brows arch. “If I’d fucked him, he would have split in half on my cock.” More laughter, this time joined by the chuckling of his rider guards and a chorus outside where there is, no doubt, additional security.

Conch’s face is as red as a tomato when he leans close to Daku and whispers: “He didn’t touch me…like that.”

“We’re here to negotiate,” Arthur boldly interrupts, chin lifted, and the Chief again considers him with an amused gleam in his eyes. Max is a bit unnerved that the alpha is paying his mate so much attention, but then again, Arthur seems to disarm the Chief in a strange way that may play to their advantage. “You want our water.”

“It’s true, little one. I do,” he smirks.

“Well, you can’t have it.” Arthur pauses, glancing at the guards as they laugh in disbelief. “It’s ours. But you can visit and take water for your people on two sun cycles.

More laughter. Daku and Gadget are horrified by the proposal, staring at the omega with wide eyes. “ _No_ ,” Gadget hisses, leaning close to Arthur’s ear.

The Chief rubs his jaw and chuckles. “Or I could take all of it.”

The omega’s spine straightens and he nods. “That’s true. You could. But that’s what Immortan would have done, and I think we can all agree the world doesn’t need another him.”

Arthur’s statement sobers the hut, even the Chief, who considers him for a long, silent moment. “Joe killed many of my riders. He was mad. Power does that to men.” He hums, mulling the proposal. “Three sun cycles."

Daku scoffs as Arthur answers: “Deal.” The alpha turns, face a white sheet. “You just killed us. Do you really think this mongrel will keep his word?”

“I do. Unless he wants to feel the full wrath of Furiosa and her army. But there are rules: no bathing in the water, or defecating. When you visit our village, none of the riders will harass the omegas or children. And the riders won’t be armed. Any damage to our crops, livestock, or huts will be fully compensated by the canyon people.”

The Chief slowly smiles. “You’ve thought this through.” He nods slowly. “All right, little one. I’ve always appreciated a fair businessman, and this seems fair.”

“In return…” Arthur continues, surprising the Chief and inspiring more disbelieving laughter, “The riders will be our allies. If we need reinforcements, for any reason, we will devise a signal to call on you from the west, and your army will be at our disposal.” 

“You do understand these alphas killed my riders, hm?” he asks, waving to the trio, “What about compensation for that?”

“Access to water will save hundreds of lives. You know that. Surely, you can forgive their indiscretion for such an agreement.”

The anger has drained from Daku and Gadget. If anything, Gadget now looks a little bit impressed while concerned Daku keeps his arm around Conch, the omega’s face buried against his shoulder, occasionally turning to warily watch Arthur during negotiations. The arrangement will be an adjustment, for sure, and Max hates the idea of foreign alphas walking through their camp, but this is preferable to an unending feud over their water. Besides, he recalls the face of the dead pup he murdered in the canyon. Most of the riders are children, undeserving of the slow, painful death of dehydration.

What was the point of saving the world if they’re going to behave like another Immortan?

The Chief clicks his tongue. “You’re quite something, aren’t you?” he says, eyeing Arthur a moment until Max clears his throat. “It will be done. Three sun cycles and we will honor your demands, Arthur.” He steps forward and offers a large paw, Arthur’s hand disappearing inside his fingers as they shake. The Chief repeats the gesture with each alpha, and finally Conch, who eyes his fingers nervously before accepting them. “I apologize for the…inhospitable welcome. In the future, my men will show you nothing but the utmost respect.”

The corner of Conch’s eye twitches before he realizes everyone is waiting for him to speak. “…Thanks.”

“You see?” The Chief cries, voice loud in the space. Conch jumps a little from the jarring noise. “A meeting of the minds! Compromise is the tool of the reasonable leader! That’s why Joe’s bones are buried in the sand and we stand here, hm?” He laughs and claps the alphas on their shoulders, sending Max nearly tumbling forward, but Arthur is there to grab him, a glowing smile stretched across his face.

* * *

“Don’t be smug,” Gadget teases once they’re back at the village, covering what’s left of the crops, along with the truck and bikes with tarps because The Dag has spotted a sandstorm on the horizon. They’ll need to take cover soon. Arthur says nothing, but his cheeky gaze betrays him. “Yes, yes. I concede it was brilliant negotiating. You probably saved our hides. We owe you."

“I didn’t do it for you,” Arthur snorts, glancing over his shoulder to The Dag who is standing purposefully outside her hut, waiting for Gadget, tattooed fingers tugging anxiously at her linens. “Go say hello,” Arthur teases, not that the alpha needs any prompting. Gadget grins and jogs at a trot over to his hungry mate, who’s already tearing at his jacket before they can get inside.

“Larrikin…” He finishes tying the tarp around the front axle and looks up to Conch’s frowning face. “Thank you…” Arthur sighs and stands to fold the youth in an embrace, careful not to touch the back of his head, which he noticed the omega cradling during the trip back home. “I thought maybe you all would think it too much trouble to free me.” His smile is weak and self-deprecating but Arthur sees the festering wound beneath it. 

He cups his brother’s face and smirks. “I’d never leave you behind.” Daku is standing by the truck, having finished securing it, but clearly is waiting for a window to speak with Conch. “And if I hadn’t done it, that mad man would have killed every last rider to get to you,” he chuckles, reaching down for Conch’s hand and patting it gently as they part. It’s time to go to the hut and make sure Dog and Tallara are nestled in for the long storm.

As he walks back to the hut, a bleating Goat cuts in front of him and brays at the entrance of The Dag’s hut until she parts the curtain with a swear and ushers him inside. Arthur laughs and ducks inside his hut, smiling when he sees Max attempting to swaddle Tallara. His mate throws a self-conscious look over his shoulder. “No, that’s good. Just wrap it tighter. It makes her feel secure,” he coaches, watching as Max unwraps, then re-wraps the linens until Tallara’s face is happy and serene. 

“Maybe I can watch the baby and you can hunt,” Max teases.

He laughs and swats at his mate before climbing onto the bedding. Dog is curled up by the entrance, napping, and Arthur thinks that’s a rather good idea. He stretched out, yawn giving way to a content sigh as Max joins him and wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist. “I’m sorry I disobeyed you. I just…had a feeling that I should follow you.”

Max hums. He takes premonitions and dreams very seriously because, based on personal experience, they’re often supernatural vehicles used for warning hosts about impending doom. If Arthur had a feeling, he was right to follow it. “Think the Chief would like to take you as a concubine.” He’s only joking, but there’s a nagging worry pulling at the back of his skull.

“Well, he can’t have me,” Arthur whispers against his lips before sealing them together with a kiss, pressing against Max’s chest. 

He groans in agreement, rolls onto his back, and pulls the omega on top of him. Fingers yank up the linens so he can grope at Arthur’s rear, coaxing a lovely waterfall of moans from his lips. No, Arthur would never go willingly, but men are greedy creatures and wont to stealing what is not theirs to take. Nevermind. No time for those dark thoughts right now. He has his beauties back, a storm is raging on the horizon, the perfect excuse for wrestling out of their clothes and working on making a brother or sister for Tallara.

* * *

Conch spends a long time holding Rabi and letting the poor child suckle from his breast. He makes soothing noises, stroking the boy’s brow, painfully aware that Daku is patiently waiting for him—this time forgoing the masquerade of examining The Dag’s artwork, and this time simply sitting on the bedding. He hasn’t asked Conch if he’ll be staying inside his hut now, but there’s no reason for him to. He wouldn’t be able to sleep without the alpha’s presence. 

“I shouldn’t have let you go…”

Rabi’s eyelids are heavy, stubborn lips unwilling to relinquish their grip just yet. Conch doesn’t turn to look at Daku. He’s afraid, if he looks at the man’s worn face, he’ll burst into tears. “It’s not your fault,” he whispers. It’s true. Daku couldn’t have known about the invasion, or that the riders would erroneously target Conch. 

“You’re stronger than we knew, little one.”

He wraps the child and tucks him under the bedding, kissing Rabi’s soft hair and inhaling his sweet scent. There was a dark moment when Conch feared he would never have this moment again, and he wants to savor it a little while. He’s not a strong person, at least not in the conventional sense. He can’t lift heavy objects or fight, and he’s no use during manual labor. But Conch has an unquenchable desire to be free, and to maintain his family’s unity. An iron will to return to his life, this life, spurred him to survive.

Daku looks at him urgently, as if awaiting a command, and Conch isn’t sure what to say, so he climbs onto the bedding beside him. They lay side-by-side gazing at each other, until the alpha tentatively touches his cheek. “I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to,” he answers at once, turning to kiss the bandaged fingers. The look of relief that washes over Daku’s face makes him feel simultaneously powerful and sad. He’s never had leverage like this over another living creature, and Conch immediately hates the feeling. He doesn’t want any questions left unanswered between them. “I want you here tonight…” he whispers, inching closer across the bedding, face warming at the spark in Daku’s gaze as the alpha watches him draw near, “and every night.” 

Daku’s teeth nip him on the way in, the torn corner of his lip screaming in objection, but the warm wave that follows soothes the pain. Conch grabs the front of his jacket, holding him as they kiss, the alpha’s heart pounding under his palm. Conch imagines it balanced on his palm, red and surprisingly fragile.

He’s going to take good care of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr: theaoidos.tumblr.com


	4. The Long Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the storm

Before the storm arrives, Max reinforces their hut’s frame with rope tied to pegs buried deep in the ground—good thing, too—because the winds are fierce, much worse than anything Max has ever seen, including the storm that nearly killed him and Nux. He crouches by the entrance and peels back heavy hide to peek outside. A wall of brown and screaming winds greet him. “Can you see Conch’s hut?” Arthur asks again. His mate is worried about the youngest omega, even though Max knows Daku also reinforced their hut before the storm. 

He grunts and shakes his head, straining to listen, but all he hears is the wind and a muffled ringing. “Can you hear them?” he asks, looking back to Arthur. His mate frowns and listens for a moment, Tallara a squirming bundle in his arms, but finally shakes his head. All Arthur can hear is the wind too. Even if the others are calling for them, they’ll never be able to help. If Max stepped one foot outside the heavily anchored hut, the wind would rip him off the ground and suck him up into the sky’s vortex.

Ropes groan and Arthur frowns at the arches. “You’re sure it’ll hold?” Max grunts—yes, he’s sure. The sand is accumulating in great drifts all around them, somewhat fortuitous because the mounds are also acting as buffers against the wind. When he places his palm against the south wall, the branches and clay don’t give slightly, as they usually do. The wall feels heavy and warm, meaning there’s a bed of sand on the other side. Fortunately, the sand hasn’t accumulated in front of the door yet, or they’ll have to hope the other tribe members can dig them out afterwards. In the corner by Max’s foot, Dog shifts minutely, unleashes a jawbone-cracking yawn, readjusts, and falls back asleep. He’s going to nap through the whole storm.

They’ve been grazing on berries and dried meat all day from the small supply Max hoarded pre-storm in anticipation of just such a scenario, but Tallara isn’t interested in such things. She squirms, whining until Arthur pushes the linens off his shoulders and allows her to suckle on his breast. He quirks a cheeky brow when Max stares. “Don’t be filthy. You’re a father now.” Max smiles and pops another berry into his mouth as he sits beside them on the bedding. He’s still watching, but this time Tallara’s contented face and half-drooped eyes as she suckles. She’s a cute little thing: fat, sparkling eyes, curious temperament. Lately, she’s been rolling onto her belly and desperately trying to scoot forward. Arthur says she’s getting ready to crawl.

Max thinks time is moving too quickly these days.

The omega drapes Tallara over his shoulder and gently pats her back until she lets out a mighty burp. Arthur and Max laugh, Tallara’s eyes wide as if surprised by the noise. “Well done, pup,” Max laughs, accepting her into his arms so Arthur can dress again. His mate’s breasts are smaller these days, stomach flat, rear firm and round. Max dips down and buries his nose and mouth in Arthur’s hair so he can breathe in his scent. Sweet. Maybe sweeter than usual. Might mean he’s pregnant, or perhaps it means nothing. When Arthur looks up at him and flashes a slow smile, Max glances meaningfully to the bedding. 

Arthur laughs. “Let me put her down to sleep first.”

Max grunts and nods. “Happy dreams, beauty.” He kisses Tallara’s brow as she blows spit bubbles.

There are worse ways to pass the days he thinks while watching Arthur swaddle their first-born and tuck her into the special bedding nestled nearby protective Dog. Resting on his elbows, Max watches the omega approach, lips curling as Arthur smiles and reaches to untie the linens. “Me on top and we have to be quiet.” Sometimes, if they rut too loudly, Dog gets upset because he thinks Max is hurting Arthur. They learned that the hard way one evening when the beast nearly gnawed off his foot. Luckily, Max had been wearing boots at the time. 

He’s not a stupid man and doesn’t plan to object to those conditions. Instead, the alphas sprawls supine and folds arms behind his head, delighting in the view of a nude Arthur kneeling before him to carefully remove the brace strapped around his leg. It’s a crude device, more mental comfort than practical skeleton, but Max swears his knee throbs more when he isn’t wearing it. Arthur sets it aside, climbs onto the bedding, and straddles his hips. He hums and reaches for him, brows arched in amusement when the omega grasps his wrists and pins them to the tangled nest of linens. 

“Be still,” Arthur teases, pretty amber starbursts gleaming. “Only move when I say so.”

 _Be quiet. Be still_. So many rules from his little mate, but then again, that’s why Max adores Arthur. He isn’t very omega-like at all. Arms fold behind his head to show that he’s on board with the plan and Arthur smirks, teeth worrying a lower pink lip when he reaches down to unfasten Max’s belt and push down the trousers. A soft cooing noise from the other end of the hut steals Arthur’s attention and he glances over his shoulder. It mustn’t be serious, however, because soon his focus returns to Max’s nether regions, fingers wrapping the length and stroking slowly. He exhales, eyes rolling back in his skull, toes curling inside boots. He could come just from this, but won’t allow that because there are so, so many better things on the horizon.

Arthur makes an appreciative noise when he’s rigid and leaking slowly from the head, using the additional lubrication to slick Max’s cock. His eyes slip shut—brow furrowed as he focuses on the throbbing in his loins, slow tightening of the sac—and then fly open again when Arthur jostles, climbing higher and carefully aligning the head with his entrance. “Should we—” Max isn’t even sure what he’s asking, and the thought dies in embryo when Arthur sinks, embedding him to the hilt. 

“Oh…” the omega moans, breaking his own rule, but Max doesn’t have the presence of mind to gloat. He reaches for Arthur’s hips, but remembers the latter rule at the last second and grabs fistfuls of bedding instead.

“When can I…?” he trails off, hungrily watching when Arthur squats atop him, rises, and drops again with agonizingly slow deliberateness. 

“Not yet,” he whispers, glancing again towards the baby, and his head stays thrown back as he begins to bounce. 

Max’s first impulse is to shout, veins straining against the flanks of his neck, head craned back as he wordlessly cries. What he can’t prevent is the helpless panting of breath and the slick sound Arthur’s wetness makes as it swallows him. The omega breathes heavily, eyes clenched shut as he drops down and undulates his hips, searching for the spot that Max knows he finds when the omega trembles and wetness pours across his thighs. He watches for a moment: the pert, pink buds of his nipples, the lovely gleaming column of his mate’s prick. Max wants to touch him so badly that his fingers itch. Strange, because his cock is buried deep, and yet it’s not enough. He wants to bite and suck on Arthur’s lips.

“Please…” 

Arthur doesn’t answer, but instead desperately nods, and that’s all the permission Max needs to surge upwards and topple them over in one, smooth arc, cradling Arthur’s rear and skull so he lands gently atop the bedding. “Max…” he sighs, lips splitting open in a soundless cry when the alpha thrusts hard. Arthur claws his back, leaving the long, red marks that will sting tomorrow (but which Max will consider fondly when he remembers their source), and leans up to bite the fleshy part of the alpha’s shoulder to keep from making noise. Dimly, he registers Tallara’s soft whines, a result of them not being quiet enough, but he can’t stop now. Nor would Arthur ask him to.

He leans down to suck on Arthur’s breast, sloppily tonguing the hard bud as the omega’s fingers run through his hair and seize the roots right before Arthur’s back arches and he makes a raspy, choking noise. The scent of orgasm floods Max’s nostrils, driving the sight of Arthur’s supine figure into a pinpoint surrounded by nothingness. There is only his mate—only the goal of coming inside him. Nothing else—waking Tallara, the ache of his bum leg, the raging storm outside—matters. He braces atop Arthur and jams his hips forth, the omega gripping his rear, dragging him forward, whispering words of encouragement. _Fill me up_.

Arthur is too spent to scold him when Max grunts loudly as he collapses atop his mate, nor does he cajole and instruct Max to move so they can spoon as the knot grows. This is why Max ends up draped across Arthur, who is bent practically in half, but doesn’t object to their positioning. The omega tenderly wipes at his perspiration-coated brow, smiling as radiantly as the sun when Max looks at him and dips down for a kiss. “You smell so good,” Max whispers, nuzzling the neck’s crook, wet curls brushing his nose and temple. He silently tries to compare the scent to something from his past, but fails. All he can remember are the smells of gasoline and leather. The answer is a thoughtful hum and a fond pat of Max’s rear. When he leans back to smirk at his mate, Arthur is craning his neck to catch a glimpse of their daughter. “Is she all right?”

“Yes…just wants attention,” Arthur smirks, “Like her father.”

Max arches his brows and tries very hard to look innocent, but judging by the wicked curl of Arthur’s mouth and the obscene way the omega kisses him, he doesn’t really buy it.

* * *

Daku peeked outside for only a moment and a red cloud invaded their hut. He quickly shut the flap and reinforced it with another hide while Conch swept up the mess. Unlike Max’s hut, their entrance faces the opposite direction, right into oncoming gusts. Luckily, he reinforced the pegs and buried them deep, so the fierce winds won’t be able to uproot them and send the hut tumbling. “Bad?” Conch asks and he answers with an exasperated look. _Very bad_. Since they’re facing the north, the entrance will be buried by the end of this, and hopefully Max and Gadget will be able to dig them up quickly because they don’t have more than a day’s, perhaps a day-and-a-half’s, worth of food.

Conch has one of his worried frowns, so Daku touches his cheek and offers an encouraging smirk. “Can’t last forever.” At least he’s here to look out for Conch and the baby. Speaking of: the little bundle is fussing enough to secure Conch’s attention. He hurries over and picks up Rabi, touching his brow and chubby face, even though he’s the one who looks flushed, the flesh of cheeks and upper lip lined with a gleaming coat of sweat. It’s not _that_ warm in the hut. Daku follows him and ghosts the backs of fingers across Conch’s brow. The skin is burning to the touch. Perhaps a sickness? Daku leans forward and inhales. “When was your last heat?”

The omega looks surprised. “Recently…” he trails off, brow furrowed. “…I think. Oh, maybe not.” His eyes are glassy, back slightly hunched, as if the enormity of the baby’s weight is too much to handle. Daku gently takes Rabi from him, and can tell the protective streak in Conch doesn’t want to allow it, but he’s too weak to object. “I think I should lay down.” Daku hums in agreement, gently guiding Conch by the small of the back until he’s sprawled across their bedding. “I need to feed Rabi…” he insists, even though they haven’t consumed anywhere near enough food for him to have produced milk, and at any rate, is in no condition to breastfeed. 

For the first time in days, Daku is worried.

“Don’t you fret, little one.” He sits on the edge of their sleeping area and strokes Conch’s brow. The sweat gathers in sheets and runs in rivulets down his temples and neck, pooling at his clavicle. What are they going to do? Daku tries to imagine wrapping up Rabi and carrying him across the way to Arthur or The Dag, but knows that is folly. The baby is too small and will breathe in the dust. What if he gets turned around with Rabi? The child could die. Conch would never forgive him. There’s only one option: he has to leave the hut, just for a little while, and hope he can make the short journey to Max’s hut and ask Arthur to come back with him. “I’ll take care of everything,” he promises, leaning down to kiss Conch’s burning forehead. 

The omega’s eyes are shut and he mumbles incoherently in response. The heat is coming on fast and soon Conch will need tending to, but they can’t let the baby suffer in the meantime. Daku carries him to the other end of the hut and swaddles him as he’s seen Conch do in the past. It’s not a perfect job, but it’ll do. He mutters an apology and Rabi gazes up at him with wide, pretty eyes. Conch’s eyes. They seem to say: _Don’t fuck this up, old man._

He pulls the neck bandana up to cover his nose and mouth, takes a deep breath, and peels away the hides. The opening is no more than a sliver, and yet the wind sucks him outside, and Daku stumbles forward, nearly face planting into a bed of sand. At the last second, he corrects his equilibrium, shields eyes, and tries to get his bearings. The village looks totally foreign. He can’t even see the water, and the horrible siren of the wind seems to be emanating from everywhere at once. It’s dark, the sandstorm having blocked out the sun—that is, if it’s even the daytime. Daku trudges forward through sand banks that reach up to mid-thigh, plowing forward on instinct, heading in what he hopes is the direction of Max’s hut.

About twenty hands from their hut, he runs into a wall of sand. Confused, he digs for a moment until fingertips touch something hard—the side of Max’s hut. The flank is almost entirely buried, but when he follows it around, the wind dies down a bit and he can see the entrance. “Max!” he shouts, pushing against the hides. He’s almost entirely blind from the flying debris, and decides to forego proper etiquette by diving inside the hut. 

Max’s angry voice immediately fills his ears. “I said hold on, dammit!” the alpha growls, and Daku instantly understands he’s interrupted an intimate moment. He makes sure to keep his back towards where he knows the mates keep their bedding.

“Sorry, sorry. Bit of an emergency. Conch is in heat. The baby needs to be fed. I wasn’t sure what to do.” Bandaged hands cup his eyes, adding another layer of privacy. If he catches an eyeful of a nude Arthur, Max will have his balls in a jar. Dog picks up his head and considers Daku with a tilted head before laying back down. He’s not interested in any desperate alpha adventure. 

“I can go…” Arthur says right away, followed immediately by Max telling him _no_. “I just ate. I have enough milk,” the omega insists, followed by a bit of commotion. Daku susses this is Arthur climbing out of the bedding and dressing. The other alpha insists Arthur is needed in _their_ hut—that Tallara will need to eat soon. This course of conversation makes sense to Daku. Omegas are overly generous creatures, and the Immortan’s former omegas are a closely knit bunch. It’s up to Arthur’s alpha to point out when he’s giving too much to his sisters or brother. A tearing noise secures his attention, and when he looks over, Arthur is dressed in his riding gear, tearing linens into long strips, and knotting them together. “I’ll tie this around my waist in case we get lost. When we’re in the other hut, I’ll anchor it there and follow the line back. I’ll tug on it three times if I need help.”

It’s a smart idea and when he looks over to Max, the alpha is watching his mate with something of a perplexed expression on his face. Daku sympathizes. He doesn’t know what to make of Arthur and he’s not even the one bedding him. “I don’t know what else to do, Max,” he interjects, wanting the other alpha to understand Arthur is saving his hide. He could wander around trying to find The Dag, but he already left Rabi and Conch alone too long. 

The confession somewhat deflates Max. He slouches, offers a scowl and sigh, but eventually stands and wanders over to Arthur to cup his face and kiss his brow. “Be careful,” he mumbles. 

Arthur grins and makes sure the knot is tight at his naval. There’s a challenging gleam in the omega’s eyes. If Daku didn’t know better, he would swear that Arthur was excited by the challenge. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he says, kissing the alpha and then leaning down to kiss the top of Tallara’s curls. The baby is eerily calm, like her omega father. “Tie this end to something.” Max glances around the hut and then crouches down to loop the other end around a grounding peg. “Let’s go,” Arthur announces, and before Daku can reply, exits the hut. He hurries to keep up, blindly groping for the sheet and then hanging on for dear life as Arthur trudges quickly, having a better idea of where Conch’s hut is than he had of Max’s location. 

The way back goes smoother, returning to their unit a stark contrast from the screaming hurricane outside to the relative silence of the hut. Poor little Rabi is whining and rolling back and forth on his bedding, tiny fingers reaching into the air. He’s probably starving. Arthur immediately unties the linens and attaches the strip to one of the anchoring pegs. “This way, we can walk back and forth without getting lost,” he says and Daku frowns, impressed. All his experience living on the road taught him that omegas are emotional, hysterical creatures, but Arthur isn’t that way at all. Neither is Conch, actually. Or The Dag. He’s still squinting thoughtfully about the state of the world when Arthur unfastens his jacket and slips out of it. Only when he grabs the hem of his undershirt does Daku understand what’s happening and quickly turns his back to the visiting omega. 

“I’ll, uh, just see to Conch,” he stammers, walking to the bedding to kneel down and touch the young omega’s face. Still burning hot, and when his fingertips graze Conch’s skin, the omega moans in a loud, unmistakably lascivious way. Daku’s feeling a bit warm himself when Arthur’s chuckling causes him to glance over his shoulder. The other omega’s back is bare and he’s currently cradling Rabi close to his chest. 

“He’ll need looking after soon,” Arthur says, gazing over his shoulder. Daku quickly looks away again to Conch’s clenched eyes and furrowed brow. The youth looks like he’s in pain, and not knowing what else to do until they have a bit of privacy, Daku leans down and kisses his forehead. “He’s not suckling,” Arthur sighs. “Quick, give me something that smells like Conch.”

“Uh…” Daku looks around the hut helplessly until he locates one of the linens Conch fashions into attire. He reaches back, offering it to the thin air because he doesn’t want to accidentally stare at Arthur’s exposed chest.

There’s laughter in the omega’s voice when he accepts the garment. “Thanks.” Daku assumes Arthur must have it draped over his shoulder because there’s a thoughtful pause and then, “Ah…there we go. He’s feeding now. Good boy,” Arthur coos.

The alpha clears his throat and mutters: “Good,” then stares at the unlined, gleaming visage of Conch. _Your mate_ , a nagging voice points out. He has knotted Conch. Went on a rampage to liberate the youth. Virtually adopted his child from a previous mating. _Virtually_. He hasn’t imprinted yet. That’s tricky business—sometimes doesn’t work. What if it doesn’t work with Rabi? Conch will be heartbroken. What if Rabi grows up hating him? What if he ends up being huge like the Immortan? What if Rabi tries to kill him?

“Are you liking it here?” Arthur lightly inquires, interrupting the dark thoughts. “Well, I _know_ you like Conch,” the omega continues, teasing.

Daku smiles faintly, stroking back the youth’s dark locks. “I like it very much. It’s nice…to have a home.”

“What if Furiosa wants you back at the Citadel? Would you and Conch go?” 

He’s never considered that possibility. Daku doesn’t think ahead in concepts like _days._ He parses his time in hours and minutes. Oftentimes seconds. This is the first time he’s imagined the possibility of a peaceful existence. Well past his half-life, he never dreamt of a possibility where he would settle down, build a home, find himself a little mate. The thought of leaving the village is enormously depressing. “Doubt she’d ask that. She wanted us here,” he answers simply.

“That’s good. Conch hated the Citadel,” Arthur remarks. 

“Dak—“ Conch rasps, blue slits greeting him upon looking up. The youth is awake, sort of. “Need you,” 

He’s sure his face must be flushed, partly from embarrassment but also the sweet, alluring scent wafting from the youth’s pores. The pheromones make saliva flood his mouth. His muscles are coiled. The fabric of his undershirt is soaked, threatening to wet his jacket too. “Almost done,” Arthur says, perhaps detecting the precariousness of their situation. “There’s a love,” he whispers, and when Daku dares a glance, he’s dressed again and wrapping the baby. “He’ll sleep soundly for a bit, while you two…” Arthur trails off, not needing to finish the thought. Daku’s face is burning—he knows his cheeks must be scarlet—and mumbles something incoherent. Maybe Max is always stammering and muttering because bloody Arthur overwhelms him. “Have fun,” the cheeky omega sings on his way out. 

Daku watches the linen rope bob once or twice as Arthur uses the mooring to make his way back to the other hut. He stands and presses the hide flap down around the rope to keep out most of the dust and then returns to Conch, who is wrapped in a cocoon of sweat-soaked linens and furs. Daku helps peel them away and leans down to kiss the youth’s burning brow as he makes soothing noises with his mouth. He’s never seen Conch like this—never experienced any of his heats—and it’s a bit unnerving. Yes, he’s rutted omegas in heat before, but never one with whom he’s bonded. Conch tugs at his jacket, grunting with exertion, and Daku smiles slightly, assisting with the task. He sheds his shirt, but gets no further because the youth reaches up and drags him down by the shoulders with great strength. 

He barks with laughter, genuinely surprised, but the smile soon drops from his face when he finds himself between Conch’s spread thighs and the omega leans up to press their lips together. Daku sucks in a deep breath, nostrils flooding with his mate’s scent, and he moans appreciatively. Demanding fingertips grope flanks, dipping down to grip his rear and grind their pelvises together, though Conch’s crotch is bare, cock hard and leaking across his flat stomach as the youth moans loudly. Their lips wetly smack as Daku leans back to glance Rabi’s way. The baby is asleep, a still, calm bundle. Yanking and jangling grip his attention and Daku smirks when he looks back and sees Conch struggling to yank open the trousers. “Easy…easy,” he chuckles, kissing the youth’s sweltering brow. The trousers pool around his knees, far enough, because the omega clearly doesn’t intend to allow him the time to fully disrobe. 

Slender legs loop around his waist as Conch strokes his cock, already half-hard from the heavy blanket of his scent and being in close proximity to a naked, young omega. He may be well past his half-life, but Daku is far from dead, and the body has a habit of operating according to muscle memory. “Please..” Conch moans, such a fragile, broken noise that Daku forgoes the remainder of formality and shoves inside. A wave greets him, pouring out to soak his pelvis and Conch’s thighs as the youth’s back arches and a wild keen tears from his throat. He’s sure the baby will wake, but there are no cries and Daku is half-mad with desire already, unable to mentally dabble in such responsibilities anyway. He dips down and hungrily bites Conch’s clavicle because the bone is lovely pressed against alabaster flesh, and the omega wails, which sets him off roughly rutting, drawing sweet hiccuping yelps from Conch as he tightens the grip of his legs and holds on to the alpha’s shoulders for dear life. 

Daku leaves a trail of love bites along the neck’s curve, thrusting deeply into the wetness between his thighs, the pleasurable pulse in his sac synchronized with the little tremors traveling through Conch’s figure and the waves washing out of him. When his eyes shut and their minds touch, Daku knows it feels good for his mate—knows just how to angle his hips and push to draw a lovely cry from the omega. _I’m going to…_ Conch’s voice is clear inside his head, but the omega never speaks, and yet seconds later he arches from the bedding and quivers before a great rush of wetness pours out. “Oh…” he sighs, collapsing into the nest. The alpha pauses mid-thrust, kissing a flushed cheek and gazing upon the youth’s face to make sure everything is all right. Conch looks as if he’s woken from a dream, fingertips lightly trailing the stubble of Daku’s jaw. “Hey…” he whispers, smiling in a dopey way.

“Hello,” Daku rumbles, kissing his pink mouth and issuing an experimental push. When the omega moans happily, they resume the pace until his thrusts have taken on a jagged edge and he’s gasping for breath, rasping inarticulate warnings about _being close_. Conch whispers encouragements, telling him to do it, so he does, pulling out and pressing against the omega’s back before thrusting back inside. Conch cries out, and then it only takes a handful of strokes to drive him over the edge. As predicted, the knot is intense in a different way he’s never felt before—strange, because it’s the same biological process: the swelling, the stretch of Conch’s inner muscles, the omega’s soft whimpering—and yet there’s a desperate clawing sensation inside his chest when he cradles his mate and kisses the damp locks, whispering that it will be okay.

Fingers splay over the youth’s chest, just over his heart, monitoring the wild beat of the organ. Conch lays his hand over it and squeezes the fingers. When Daku peeks over his shoulder, there’s a dazed grin stretched across his face. “I feel much better.” Daku laughs. He expected as much. Suddenly, Conch sobers and braces atop an elbow. “Where’s Rabi?”

“He’s fine…” Daku murmurs, explaining everything that happened while Conch was enduring the worst of the heat.

“Larrikin was here?” Conch asks, frowning thoughtfully once he’s returned to the sprawling position against Daku’s chest. “I didn’t hear anything—” A might yawn cuts off his words and the alpha smirks, nuzzling his cheek. “You need to rest.” 

Truthfully, they both do. Daku is no stranger to bedding young omegas, and he knows Conch will need more attention soon. If he’s to satisfy that need, he’ll need to rest.

“M’glad you’re here…” Conch says after Daku eyes have closed. He’s said it before. It’s become something of a mantra, as if the omega believes repeating the words will keep Daku with him and their home intact.

Their fingers are laced atop the steady beating. “Always,” he promises.

* * *

The storm is over. Even Max can tell the wind isn’t howling anymore, and when he peels away the hide, streams of light filter into the hut near the roof. The problem is: the rest of the doorway is blocked by a sand drift. He’s muttering to himself, swearing creatively, when Arthur walks up and examines the damage. “We have to pull back the hide and dig our way out.” And when Max points out the sand will get everywhere, his mate quirks a brow and shrugs. “We’ll clean after. We _have_ to, Max.”

Village life has spoiled him. He’s gotten too used to bathing in the water and not constantly being covered with dirt and muck. The other day, The Dag served them dinner on plates she whittled from wood. All this opulence has made him averse to filth. “Of course..” he mutters, not wanting Arthur to think him soft. Just then, a pair of boots trudges to a halt by Max’s temple and Gadget squats down, smirking through the sliver.

“Hello there, brother! Quite a nasty storm, hm? We’re the only ones not buried. Little Conch is twenty hands under too.” 

“Is he okay?” Arthur inquires, frowning into the light.

“Oh, ay. Daku too. And the baby. All is well. They’re in a similar situation. Bit of doorway showing, but it’ll take a day’s work to dig them out.” Gadget smiles the whole time, remarkably unfazed by the news he’s delivering. Max wagers he spent a blissful few days rutting The Dag, hence his jovial spirits. 

Arthur turns and walks to their bedding, rummaging around a bit before he returns with a gun cradled in his hand. Max squints at the omega. No, not a gun. A flare gun. “What’s that for?” he mutters.

“It’ll take too long digging us out. Use this,” he instructs, feeding the flare gun through the narrow split. A bit of sand falls away in the process, dirtying Arthur’s toes. “Call the Canyon for help. We’ll be out in no time with some more hands.”

“ _No_ ,” Max growls, reaching for the gun even though it’s already gone, “Arthur, I don’t want… _him_ here.” 

“This is our arrangement,” Arthur continues, perfectly calm like Max is the unreasonable one. “They’ll be here soon for a water pick up anyway, and in exchange we get to call on them for assistance when we need it. Like now,” he adds poignantly, chin lifted in an infuriatingly superior fashion.

Gadget’s grin grows three times in size when Max scowls. “You heard the boss! The Canyon it is.” He disappears, laughing, before Max can grab him. A second later, the sound of a shot. Max envisions the souring arch, the red explosion against the blue sky. Riders will be in the village within the hour.

He’s furious, and worse, unable to stalk away because he’s trapped inside the hut with Arthur for the foreseeable future. “Don’t do that,” he snarls, pacing across the hut.

Arthur’s face is blank as he watches him. “Do what?”

“Talk back to me in front of the alphas. You’re an omega,” Max mutters, stalking back over to the omega so he doesn’t have to shout and wake Tallara. Anger surges through his limbs, fingertips quivering, so he balls them into fists. He’s never been angry at Arthur before. The feeling turns his stomach sour. 

Fortunately, Arthur doesn’t seem frightened. If anything, his face is a reflection of Max’s own annoyance. “What would you have us do, hm? Sit here for days while Gadget digs us out? We’re out of food. How will I make milk? You would have your daughter go hungry?”

Embarrassed by his mate’s sound reasoning, Max storms away again, muttering beneath his breath. He gathers some things: his riding gear, straps on a couple holsters. If the riders will be arriving soon, he wants to be ready. Arthur may trust the Rock Rider Chief, but Max certainly doesn’t. For all he knows, they could invade, take the omegas, and burn the huts to the ground. That’s what they tried to do the first time, after all. Their roofs are still singed from the first attempt.

Once his thoughts are collected, he jabs an angry finger in Arthur’s face. “Any other alpha would have taken you over a knee." 

He realizes his poor choice in words when Arthur smirks. “We can still do that, if you like.”

In such a moment, it’s difficult for Max to remember to be cross with his mate. He exhales through his nose and barks with laughter, remarking fondly, “Cheeky,” and pulling Arthur forward by his linens. His chest and pelvis are warm—even through the layers of gear. Arthur splays fingers across his chest, feeling the expanse of the alpha’s chest, teeth worrying his lip in appreciation. Max hums, watching him. “Put more clothes on.” He doesn’t want the riders seeing Arthur half-nude.

A slow grin blossoms on his lips. “I will.”

* * *

Roaring engines signal the riders’ arrival. At the time, Max is sitting beside Arthur, who is cradling Tallara. They exchange a weary glance, engaging in a silent conversation. _This was your idea_ , Max says with his eyes, to which Arthur replies: _I know what I’m doing, crazy man_ , with a quirk of his brow. Tallara gazes up at them with wide eyes, chubby cheeks indenting with Arthur’s dimples when Max pulls a funny face. 

The agreement is this: Max will be the primary contact—the one to first speak with the riders and explain their situation—and Arthur is to hang back and look after their daughter. It’s the omega’s one, small concession since he’s clearly the one running the whole operation. Max looks up at the sliver of blue sky, patiently waiting until a few pairs of well-worn leather boots lumber up to the hut. One of the men crouches down, sticking a face like beaten hide into the space. “Got yerself buried, hm?”

If he was in a talkative mood, Max might have pointed out that’s an odd way to phrase their status as the victims of a natural disaster, but before he can open his mouth, Gadget’s voice emanates from somewhere behind the cluster of riders: “Nasty storm. I’m sure you felt it your way too. I’m frankly amazed we didn’t blow away!” He ends the remark with a hardy chorus of laughter which no one joins.

Max peers up at the man’s face. The corners of his eyes are framed with deep lines. Another old man living in the wilderness. At least the Rock Rider Chief didn’t send weak pups to dig them out. “My mate needs to eat,” Max grunts.

His face warms when the rider glances back, deeper into the hut, to Arthur and the baby. The muscles between his shoulders draw tight, the fingers of his hand balling into a fist. He could punch through the sliver and wallop the rider in his jaw, knocking him out cold. 

The other alpha nods slowly, “We’ll get you out in two shakes.”

Max’s heart is still thundering between his ears when he nods once in thanks.

* * *

The men tunnel into the hut, burrowing a hole no larger than the width of a broad-shouldered alpha, but it’s enough to pull out Arthur and the baby, Dog, and finally Max. Arthur hurries off to reunite with the other omegas, eat, and feed Tallara, while Max stays with the riders and continues shoveling. The men have brought with them digging devices—crude tools fashioned out of poles and bent sheet metal, but they do the trick. 

Clear skies unleash a blazing heat and blinding light. It takes a long time for Max’s eyes to adjust, and he spends a good while blinking and shielding his eyes from the sun but eventually adjusts, sheds his shirt, and joins the men in backbreaking labor. The sand is not only endless, but heavy from rain water—more like mud, really—and they relocate it beyond the village until it’s an enormous mountain and the huts are fully visible once more. Worst of all, The Dag’s crops are completely buried, and she’s furious until they remove the sand and it turns out the damage isn’t as bad as she initially thought, and the sand may have actually protected the fragile plants from the harshest winds. As soon as they clear the grass, a braying Goat runs over to fill his belly grazing. Conch’s poor piano is in rough shape, and the youngest omega is crestfallen until Daku swears upon the moon and stars that he’ll be able to fix it. “And if your man can’t, I can, little one,” Gadget chimes in, offering a winning smile. After all, he can fix anything, at least according to Furiosa.

Once they’ve taken inventory of the damage—not too bad by all reckoning—the omegas scamper off to look after the babies and to no doubt catch up on their missed days together. Max has learned not to feel jealous over the connection Arthur shares with his sisters and brother. Together, they survived a traumatic ordeal, and now share a profound connection of which Max is not a part, in the same way Conch and The Dag aren’t a part of his bond with Arthur.

“Oh, that’s trouble,” Gadget remarks, nodding to the three small figures dipping into The Dag’s hut. When Max grunts inquisitively, he smirks: “Omegas. They gossip, you know.”

If he was in a talkative spirit, Max might have pointed out what they’re currently doing could also be categorized as gossip. But Daku pipes up first: “What do they have to gossip about?" 

“Ohhh…” Gadget trails off thoughtfully, mopping a blanket of sweat from his brow. “This, that, and the other. Right now, Conch is probably spinning a tall yarn about that desert snake in your trousers.”

Max sputters with laughter before he can stop himself and Daku shoots him an annoyed look. “Conch wouldn’t,” he insists and Gadget’s infuriatingly nonchalant shrug only makes matters worse. “Yer talking our yer arse,” the alpha spits, storming past him, but it does not escape Max’s attention that he makes a beeline for The Dag’s hut. No coincidence, to be sure. Gadget’s brows are high on his forehead when he looks Max’s way, and they share a glance for a split second before hurrying after their compatriot. Max tells himself he is absolutely only doing this to make sure Daku doesn’t do anything to send The Dag into a fit. 

He is most definitely not going to eavesdrop on the omegas’ conversation.

* * *

Larrikin keeps cupping his face and inspecting him as if expecting to find damage, and though Conch sighs and rolls his eyes, a flower of warmth blossoms in his chest knowing his brother worries so much about him. “Really, I’m fine,” he insists while The Dag shoves a pile of berries into his palm and insists he _fatten up_ in order to feed Rabi. For his part, the baby is resting content with his cousins, unbothered and well-fed (thanks to Larrikin). Maybe he should feel territorial of his child, or uneasy that another omega has fed him their milk, but he doesn’t. Having a baby has taught him that he needs the aid of his kin to care for Rabi, and there’s no shame or weakness in needing help. 

Conch pops the berries into his mouth and contentedly chews while Larrikin triple checks his face, only briefly pausing when he notices the bruises on his neck, but says nothing about their presence. Tactfully, Larrikin clears his throat and remarks: “I’m glad you and Daku had a nice time.”

His cheeks flush, but he says nothing. Doesn’t need to because just then The Dag erupts in snorting laughter. “You’re one to talk. I heard you yelping inside your hut. 

Larrikin glares at his sister, but in a good-natured way. “No you didn’t. There was too much wind.” 

“Fine, I didn’t hear it with these,” The Dag points at her ears, “But I know you were making a ruckus.”

Larrikin rolls his eyes but the smirk is now a fully bloomed grin. “Oh, and what were you and Gadget doing: quietly reading?”

The Dag shakes her head and hums like she’s just sunk her teeth into particularly ripe fruit. “That man is a stallion.”  

Conch’s eyes grow to the size of melons, mirroring Larrikin’s own shock before the three of them explode into laughter. It feels good—just like the old days when they lived inside the vault and would discuss the most strapping War Boys they could see from the windows. Except, this is better because they all have mates and babies, and the village is their home. He looks to the little bundles at the center of their circle and reaches to brush back Rabi’s curls from his brow. Conch wonders if their children will be best of friends too. He hopes so.

“What about you?” The Dag grins, nudging Conch’s shoulder with her own. “How’s Daku in the saddle?”

He blushes fiercely and offers his best scowl, not that he’ll be able to quench the other omegas’ curiosity. As embarrassing as this line of questioning is, it’s nice to be able to talk about this stuff. Before, rutting was a giant storm cloud looming over them because the Immortan always meant pain and tears. Not anymore, though. Conch flashes a shy smile. “He’s…good.” When The Dag and Larrikin offer unimpressed looks, he sighs and elaborates: “Really good.” He glances idly at the babies, hoping they don’t understand the meaning of such things yet. But just in case, he lowers his voice when he asks: “Have you ever…I mean…during….gotten really wet? I don’t mean the usual wet. Like—”

“A waterfall!” The Dag shrieks with delighted laughter, clapping her hands. “Bless, child!”

Larrikin’s got a big grin plastered across his face too. “Yeah, Conch. It’s a good thing. Means you two are a good match.”

He’s silently pleased for a moment, having had all his secret thoughts about Daku and their union verified by his brother and sister. They fall into a quiet and comfortable silence, watching the babies roll and thrash. Gurumarra has rolled onto his belly and desperately kicks his legs as if wishing to propel forward. He’ll be crawling soon. “Do you think Furiosa knew they’ve a good match for us?” 

The Dag smirks. “She has the sight, like Max. The far sight.” 

Sometimes their sister talks in riddles they don’t understand. Arthur shrugs, leaning down to swaddle Rabi tighter. “She always had a plan for everything else, so I imagine that was a thought in her head. She doesn’t want you to be sad, Conch. That’s why she sent Daku and the piano.”

“Oh…” He smiles, touched at the thought. “I wish she’d come see us. With the others.” It’s been so long since he’s seen his sisters that he’s beginning to forget their faces, his brain reducing them to unsatisfying caricatures. 

“She will one day,” Larrikin promises, leaning forward to tease, “For the wedding.”

Conch turns ruddy again and laughs, shaking his head. The very idea is absurd. Life is about surviving one moment to the next. Weddings are a silly, archaic tradition that he wouldn’t even know about had it not been for Ms. Giddy’s books. Larrikin asks him _why not? Doesn’t he want one?_ “I mean…yes, of course, but…” Conch shakes his head again. How to explain? “A wedding is not for me. I wouldn’t want anyone to fuss." 

“And a ring! Daku should go to Bartertown and find you something pretty and shiny,” The Dag concludes, completely ignoring what Conch has just said.

“No, no,” Conch says, shaking his head, except now he can’t get the vision out of his head: Daku holding his hands, eyes shining with happiness, The Dag saying a prayer in front of the whole village. And Daku sliding the ring, a symbol of their unbreakable bond, onto his finger. He’s frightened by the idea of wanting something because, in Conch’s experience, wanting something always ends in disappointment. 

Daku is the first thing he’s wanted that he was actually able to have. Daku and the piano. 

It’s too hot in The Dag’s hut, too many bodies sharing the same air, and he dabs at his temple when a fat dollop of sweat grazes the flesh. Larrikin touches his cheek and forehead again with the cool backs of his fingers. It feels good so he leans into the touch. “You’re sure Daku broke the heat?” he asks, frowning thoughtfully.

Conch hums affirmatively and nods. His mate broke it very thoroughly, but he doesn’t want to say that aloud or The Dag will cackle. “I just don’t feel good,” he mumbles. He wonders if he should leave Rabi with his brother and sister for a while. If it’s a flu, he doesn’t want to pass it on to the children. Suddenly, his sister swoops close and buries her nose against his neck. Conch yips and practically topples backwards, partly believing the omega will bite him. She’s only done it once or twice, and never broken the flesh (biting is how she shows affection while they’re playing), but he doesn’t want to risk it.

The Dag grins wide, showing her teeth. “You’re with child. Knew it smelled too yummy in here.”

Conch’s eyes widen while Larrikin laughs and claps his hands. “Walhalla, bless us! My, my. Daku certainly works quick.”

Their sister offers a challenging smirk. “Don’t know what you’re so giddy about. You’re with child too.”

Larrikin’s face is now his own: pale, with wide eyes. From outside, there comes a loud yelp.

* * *

This is wrong. They shouldn’t be spying like this. Max wants to tell the other alphas they should go, but then the omegas will hear and catch them snooping anyway. He could simply walk away, but a small stubborn part inside won’t allow it. They end up huddled together, heads tilted towards the hut’s hide, ears practically pressed to the flap. As predicted, the omegas are discussing rutting. Gadget offers an unbearably smug expression, as if to say, _told you so_. Max frowns, ignoring him, so he can hear the details. It’s unsurprising, he supposes. Alphas talk about largely the same thing when they’re left to their own devices.

The female omega accuses Arthur of yelping inside their hut during the storm and Gadget offers him a thumbs up. Max’s face warms but he absolutely refuses to smile. After all, what they’re doing is wrong. _Snoopy snoop_ , his daughter whispers into a free ear.

The Dag says something about Gadget being a stallion and the alpha smirks, flexing his arm. Daku rolls his eyes.

Then it’s Conch’s turn to share. The three of them have to lean forward slightly because the youngest omega speaks so softly. Idly, Max wonders why his hearing improves tenfold when he’s being a meddling smeg. The youth asks about gushing, one of life’s true miracles. A few times before they found the green place and they were running short on water, Max knelt between Arthur’s thighs and licked him until he could drink from his mate. He’s done the same with his breast milk. Omegas are truly a life-saving gift from Walhalla. Arthur has known about gushing for as long as they’ve been together, but apparently the phenomenon is news to little Conch.

Gadget soundlessly cackles and claps the back of Daku, who is roughly the color of a tomato. Nothing to be ashamed of, though. Any decent alpha knows how to make his omega gush.

Max is too busy watching the alphas and he misses part of the conversation, but when he strains to hear again, the omegas are in the middle of talking about Furiosa—and then something about a wedding. He leans forward, the shell of his ear grazing the hide. Conch is talking. _I wouldn’t want anyone to fuss_. The Dag shouts about a ring, and when Max glances to the other alpha, Daku has suddenly lost all his color and is as white as a painted War Boy, brow furrowed in confusion. He knows something is gravely amiss, but perhaps doesn’t understand the full ramifications. Max doesn’t blame him. He’s a little fuzzy on what exactly a wedding entails too.

Strange. It never occurred to him that the omegas would want something like a wedding. Idly, he wonders if Arthur brought it up because that’s what _he_ wants. Should he propose? Is that something alphas even do anymore? Will Arthur think it’s silly and laugh?

Gadget chuckles and claps poor Daku on the shoulder again, dipping down to whisper: “My friend, you are in so much trouble.”

Max holds a finger to his lips and scowls. They can’t talk or they’ll get caught. 

“What’s a wedding?” Daku murmurs to the alpha, ignoring Max’s alarmed look. 

Gadget rolls his eyes. “Don’t they have books at the Bullet Farm?”

His gestures are now frantic and the alphas finally stop talking. Luck is on their side, though. The omegas are too preoccupied gossiping to hear them. By the time they resume listening, the omegas are discussing that Conch is sick. Daku frowns, squinting as he listens. _No, not sick_. The Dag is laughing.

 _You’re with child_.

Max and Gadget’s head snap towards Daku, monitoring the alpha’s reaction, which can only be described as utter shock. His mouth opens as if he will say something, then closes. There’s more chatter within the hut. The Dag—speaking to Arthur— _You’re with child too_. Max surges forward, then remembers at the last second he can’t charge into the hut and embrace Arthur or his mate will know he was spying, so he steps back—right onto Daku’s toes.

The alpha yelps in pain and suddenly the hide flaps fly open and the smirking face of The Dag is staring down at them.

* * *

 “Yer a bunch of snooping smegs!” she laughs, leaping onto Gadget the moment she sees him. He laughs and gathers her into his arms, The Dag looping her legs around his waist as he carries her around. 

“Guilty as charged, my sweet. I swear to you we only had the purest intentions,” he chuckles.

Max stares at Arthur the moment he emerges. “You’re pregnant.” 

The news is fresh for both of them, and the omega looks a bit dazed, but smiles slowly, “It would appear that way, yes.” He grabs his mate, folding him in an embrace that is probably too rough, but Arthur doesn’t complain. He clings to the alpha, burying his face against Max’s neck. Arthur’s flesh is hot and wet, and when he peers at his mate, Max sees he’s crying. Happy tears, though. He’s smiling too. Max gently wipes them from his face and kisses the salty flesh. “You’ll be a daddy again.”

He laughs, and it’s still an odd feeling: this happiness. Arthur, and everything he brings, still sometimes seems like an illusion, an oasis in the desert of Max’s life. When he looks inside the hut, Daku is cradling Conch in his arms and kissing the youth’s brow and cheeks as the omega whispers: “You’re happy? We never talked about it…”

“‘Course I am,” Daku chuckles, disbelievingly, like he can’t imagine why Conch would have thought otherwise, “Are you joking? I’m still amazed a pretty little thing like you wants anything to do with an old bag of bones like me. I’m a lucky fool." 

That’s true, anyway.

* * *

The riders stay after the digging is done and three more arrive, two by bike, and one by a truck with a pod attached to the back which they will fill with water. While the alphas greet the new arrivals, the omegas gather on the bank to watch from afar. The babies are down for a nap, and they had planned to bathe, but that will have to wait now. Conch doesn’t want to be nude in front of strange alphas anyway, and he stands by the water, frowning at it. “You’re sure they won’t just drain the pond dry?” 

Larrikin chuckles and explains again that, no, the pond won’t run dry because of something called an _underground aquifer_. Conch doesn’t know what that means, but his brother explains it’s the reason The Dag can grow her crops. The water is filtering in from somewhere deep under the soil, some untapped resource no one has discovered yet, and they have more than enough water to supply the canyon people with some of it. Though he doesn’t fully understand, he trusts because Larrikin has always been very clever and a voracious reader of Ms. Giddy’s books.

The Dag wrinkles her nose. “Sod this. I’m going in. Let them have a gander if they want.” She unceremoniously sheds her linens and plunges into the water, making such a ruckus that some of the alphas look over. 

Conch frowns when Larrikin begins untying his linens too, but his brother flashes a supportive smile. “They’re too busy working.” The other omega winks and wades into the water, pale figure disappearing under the surface.

The only thing worse than going in is to be the only one _not_ in the water, so Conch quickly disrobes and follows them into the pond. The temperature is perfect—cool, but not chilly, and he happily sighs before dipping under. When he resurfaces, The Dag and Larrikin’s smiling faces greet him, their hair wet and slicked back. They stand in the shallow end so they don’t have to tread water and talk while washing the dirt and grime from their skin. The Dag has a little sack of perfumed soap ground from flower petals that she shakes into their palms and they rub across their skin.

They’re so busy chatting and distracted by the excitement of being in the water that they fail to notice the riders until they’re standing at the bank. “Well, aren’t you lovely things?” one of them announces, a bearded alpha with long hair divided into ropes that spill down his back—like the riders’ helmets, but it’s his real hair. Conch immediately dips down under the water so his breasts are hidden.

Larrikin offers a gloriously icy scowl. “Our mates are nearby.”

The man shrugs, unconcerned, while the other alpha, this one with cropped hair the color of a setting sun, smirks. “We’re just saying hello.” But the way he says the words makes his intentions seem far from innocent. The men are openly gawking at Larrikin and The Dag, who refuse to hide their bodies from the foreigners. Conch longingly eyes his linens on the bank, but knows going to fetch them would mean the alphas catching even more of an eyeful.

“How’s about I cut our your eyes for looking?” The Dag sneers.

The ropey-haired alpha’s brows slowly rise on his forehead. “Now, is that any way to speak to your new allies? You know, this one here,” he gestures at Larrikin, “Killed one of our kin. I’d say you owe us, hm? At the very least, we deserve a gander.”

Conch is afraid there will be a fight. He loves his brother and sister, but they are far from the standard model of patient omegas. The Dag has always been quick to scrap and Larrikin does not tolerate fools, which is why he’s surprised when Larrikin suddenly looks at him and says, “Come on. We’re getting out." 

He’s not sure what’s happening, but obeys, swiftly surfacing and then running to his linens so he can quickly cover himself. He makes sure not to look at the alphas so he doesn’t see the men watching them. That way, it’s like it’s not happening. “We have to walk past them to get to the huts,” he whispers to his kin.

Larrikin shakes his head. “We’ll walk the other way around. Can avoid them that way.” Conch frowns, but nods. He’s never seen Larrikin run from a fight, but then it occurs to him: this whole deal between their village and the canyon people was his doing. To admit there are imperfect aspects of the deal would mean failure. No wonder Larrikin didn’t shout for his mate. Confirmation comes a moment later when their brother looks over and says: “Don’t tell the alphas about this.” 

“I could poison their water,” The Dag offers.

“ _No_ ,” Larrikin sighs, “No retribution. We ignore it. Understand?”

The Dag sighs as Conch nods, which means they do.

* * *

He’s not supposed to tell, but it’s just rotten luck that Conch walks past their alphas on the way back to the hut to check on Rabi. Apparently, there was some additional sand blocking the latrine, so the men are shoveling a clear path when Conch walks by and Daku spots him. He smiles brightly, “Have a nice bath?” And immediately notices the spooked look on his face. He sets down the shovel and walks over, frowning: “What happened?” 

The question catches Max and Gadget’s attention, and they pause from working to look at him. _Bugger_. Conch considers lying, but his gut says that would be wrong—even worse than disobeying Larrikin because Daku is his mate. “Larrikin said not to say…” he whispers.

Max sets down his shovel and walks over, face worn as he sighs: “Come on. Out with it.”

Now the three alphas are standing in front of him and Conch shrinks, arms crossed protectively over his chest. He could refuse and walk back to the hut, but then Daku would follow, asking more questions. They’re going to find out eventually. Larrikin is going to be so mad at him. “They didn’t touch us…” he begins weakly.

Gadget’s face darkens. “ _Conch_ ,” he spits, in a harsh tone he’s never heard from him before.

The words come pouring out: “Some of the alphas were fresh. They said they could watch us bathe because Larrikin killed a rider.”

“ _Right_ ,” Gadget growls, storming off before Conch can even finish.

Max shouts after him and takes off running, Daku close behind. He gasps, following because he doesn’t know what else to do. Maybe he should have called for Larrikin, but everything happens so quickly. Gadget finds the men, still standing by the lake, but doesn’t bother to verbally confront them. He marches up to the pair and punches the ropey-haired alpha square in the face, knocking him backwards into the water with a terrific splash. His compatriot shouts and takes a swing at Gadget, who ducks the blow and tackles the alpha to the ground.

Riders come charging from every direction, even the men manning the pod truck climbing out to join the brawl. Dog charges from Max’s hut into the middle of the battle, sinking his teeth into the forearm of a rider, who screams in agony. Max and Daku have gone from trying to stop the fight to participating in it, throwing riders off Gadget and brawling with them: punching, kicking, tornadoes of limbs and dust. Conch watches with wide, horrified eyes, knowing he should hide, but is paralyzed by fear. Cries emanate from the huts. All the chaos has woken the babies.

The Dag charges out from her hut, armed with a large stick and cracks it across the back of a rider walloping Gadget as he lays supine on the ground.

Conch is afraid his sister will be killed. Daku is somewhere in the middle of the brawl. What if they die because of him? His breathing is rapid, heart pounding wildly. Conch remembers the time his sister caught a desert rabbit—how scared it was—the wild look of a hunted animal that’s finally been caught. He falls to the dirt and pulls his knees to chest, face buried so he doesn’t have to look anymore. 

The blast of a gun silences everyone. When Conch looks up, the alphas are frozen in place, some still locked in a hostile embrace with their counterparts, but all eyes are cast to the heavens where a yellow flower blossoms in the sky.

A flare. Larrikin is standing outside his hut, the smoking gun in hand. Yellow to summon the Rock Rider Chief.

* * *

Max has a black eye and a bloody lip. Arthur carefully cleans the wounds inside their hut. Things have calmed a bit, but there’s a tense detente as they await the chief’s arrival. The omegas are seeing to their alphas as the riders mill about outside and counsel with each other, no doubt getting their story in order before their leader arrives. Max watches him as he gently dabs at the corner of his eye where one of the rider’s knuckles tore the flesh. “Don’t want you to speak with him.” Arthur doesn’t answer because he’s already lied to Max by withholding information. Of course he’ll be speaking with the chief when he arrives. After all, the chief will demand to see him. “You should have told me,” his mate mutters. 

He sighs and sets aside the cloth so he can sit across Max’s lap. The alpha allows it, even going so far as to wrap his arms around Arthur’s waist, so he isn’t too angry. “I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers against the alpha’s temple. It seemed like a good compromise at the time: the omegas would withstand some harassment to preserve their truce with the canyon people, but now he understands such an arrangement is still a prison by a different name.  

If verbal harassment is tolerated, what’s next? Groping? Would he allow the riders to occasionally mount the omegas? Surely, the village’s alphas would not allow it. Such a system can only result in chaos, misery, and death. He buries his face against Max’s hair and breathes his scent: sweat, soil, the rich, comforting musk. Arthur wishes Furiosa was here. She has such a clear vision for how pacts should work. _What would you do?_

An engine roars outside and Arthur leans back to gaze upon the face of his mate. “I have to talk to him,” he says, a thumb pad tracing Max’s dark cheek.

Max hums. “I’m going with you.”

By the time they walk outside, the chief is off his bike, stand kicked into the dirt, helmet cradled under his arm. His face is stoic and unamused. When Arthur glances towards the pond, the riders are huddled together, warily watching the interaction. Arthur slowly walks up to him, Max close behind. He forgot how large the man is. Standing in front of them, he blocks out the sun, which is now nearing the horizon. The chief will have to ride back in darkness following their meeting, one of many reasons he is not pleased with his men.

“Are you hurt?” he immediately asks, surprising Arthur. He opens his mouth, unsure of what to say, and keenly aware of a bristling Max standing just behind his right shoulder. Eventually, he manages to shake his head. He’s unsure, but thinks something like relief floods the chief’s gaze, and before Arthur can analyze it, he instructs: “Tell me what happened,” so Arthur offers the short version. The chief listens intensely, grunting once as he processes the information. Arthur sucks in a deep breath and adds: “They broke our agreement that your alphas would not bother our omegas.”

“You’re right,” The chief says at once, squinting at the cluster by the pond. “Tell me which men harassed you.” 

Arthur hesitates, but finally points out the men: rope-hair and the firehead. The chief gestures for them and the men slowly approach, faces grave like prisoners on their way to the gallows. He’s expecting a reprimand, perhaps an official demotion, but certainly not the chief drawing a pistol and aiming it at rope-hair’s forehead. “No!” Arthur cries, diving in front of the chief, blocking the shot. “No killing. I thought—” 

“These men wronged you,” the chief calmly explains, “This is how we handle offenses of this nature. They broke our contract and they must be punished.”

“ _No_ , wait,” Arthur begs, unsure of what to say next, but at least the chief hasn’t fired. It’s not too late. He glances to Max, not knowing why, but the alpha catches his gaze and steps forward, clearing his throat.

“Maybe a punishment. Not death, though. Have them walk back to the canyon,” he suggests.

The chief considers this a moment, chuckling and holstering his weapon. “They’re not misbehaving children and I am not their father. If I’m soft with these men, they’ll take advantage of my kindness.”

“They’ll be grateful for your mercy,” Arthur interjects. “Furiosa never abused the War Boys, or the omegas, and we would die for her.”

The alpha mulls over those words, “Mercy,” he repeats, rolling the word around in his mouth as if tasting an exotic wine. Arthur glances over to the foreign alphas, who are radiating palpable terror, not yet convinced they aren’t about to be executed. When he looks back, the chief is watching him thoughtfully. “Come here,” he says and Arthur feels Max’s hackles go up. He gestures to him to indicate it’s all right, even though he doesn’t really know if that’s true. The omega slowly approaches, mouth and throat dry as the chief observes him. When Arthur is standing directly in front of him, the chief dips down and sniffs. Being so near a strange alpha frays his nerves, tips of fingertips quivering slightly as he glances at the alpha’s face, which is so close he can see the stubble lining his jaw. The chief’s dark gaze roams across his face and he hums, as if finally discovering a long sought answer.

The whole interaction lasts no more than a few seconds and suddenly the chief steps back and barks at his men: “Finish filling the pod! Then we leave. You two,” he says to rope-hair and firehead. “Walk back. Your bikes now belong to the village. Consider it fair compensation for the trouble.” The chief nods once at Arthur, climbs his bike and yanks on the helmet, a swift heel sweeping up the stand as he starts the engine and tears off. 

The men follow sporadically, the pod driver and chastised riders being the last to leave. Before they set off on foot, Conch presents them with a canteen filled with water. “For the journey,” he explains to a mystified firehead. The alpha seems to be experiencing a mixture of confusion and shame. After all, a mere few hours ago, he and his comrade were harassing the omegas who have saved their lives and are now supplying them for the long journey home.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. Conch doesn’t say it’s all right, which makes Arthur proud. The old Conch would have denied he was bothered by the harassment at all. The new Conch doesn’t provide forgiveness until it’s earned. Rope-hair doesn’t say anything, but nods at Arthur before they begin the walk back home. The village stands watching their retreat until the alphas have disappeared behind the nearest sand dune. 

* * *

Max is quiet the rest of the evening, more so than usual, and Arthur knows they have much to talk about, but waits until after supper and he’s fed and put Tallara down for the night. The alpha lays across the bedding, arms folded behind his head as he watches them, but he’s silent until Arthur joins him. They lay side-by-side, considering each other until Max gently cups his cheek and Arthur leans into the touch. “Why did he do that?” he finally asks.

It’s the question Arthur has been pondering all evening. Why did the chief call him over? Why the odd moment when he dipped down to smell him?  

“He knows I’m pregnant.”

Max’s brow furrows. “What business is it of his?” 

That’s the part he’s unsure about. Perhaps the knowledge of Arthur’s pregnancy prevented the chief from unleashing violence, but that answer unsettles him because it means the chief feels protectiveness towards him. Like an alpha would towards their mate. And Arthur is not his mate. 

 _But perhaps he wants you to be his_.

“Arthur…” he sighs, rolling onto his back, “This pact of yours. It’s good. You fought hard for it. But I cannot abide certain things.”

So many words from Max is practically a soliloquy and Arthur knows now not to take such a declaration lightly. His mate is a quiet man, one who chooses his words carefully, so Max must have been mulling over this for days. Perhaps longer. Max is a good, strong alpha, but he has stood in silence while another man has shown open interest in his mate. He’s permitted the overfamiliarity. He allowed the chief beckoning and smelling him.

However, there are limits.

“I know,” Arthur whispers, touching Max’s chin and turning his face. “I’m trying to be smart about this. I won’t abide certain things either, you know.”

The alpha hums, fingertips tracing his clavicle, down between his breasts. “If he touches you—”

“No,” Arthur interrupts, dipping down to kiss Max’s soft mouth. He won’t even humor the idea. The chief wouldn’t be so bold. The canyon leader is reckless, but not stupid. He’s deliberately walking a fine line between familiarity and overindulgence. The alpha grips his waist, pulling him close until he’s half-draped atop Max, the alpha’s mouth warm and wet as lips part to welcome him. Arthur whimpers against his lips, hoping they’ll stop talking and skip ahead to rutting.

Max pulls away to gaze at him. “Do you want one?” Arthur stares blankly at him, waiting until he clarifies: “A wedding?”

A slow smile breaks out across his mouth. Due to all the excitement, he’d completely forgotten about the alphas eavesdropping on their conversation. _I’m already yours_ , he explains and Max smiles, his fingertips tracing the column of Arthur’s spine, gently pushing down the linens so he can grip the omega’s bare rear. _I know, but would it make you happy?_

Arthur moves so he’s sprawled across Max’s bulkier frame, delighting in the sensation of his nude flesh rubbing against the well-oiled leather of the alpha’s jacket and trousers, the rough stitches of patch jobs sending delighted thrills along Arthur’s limbs. He carefully considers the question, wondering why there is no desire for a formal ceremony. When the answer occurs to him, he smiles at his mate. 

“Do you remember our first night together? It was so beautiful and peaceful. I could see the stars when I was walking to you. It was the first time I could see them so clearly. We would try to see them from the vault but…the angle was all wrong. I was scared because I thought Furiosa would be angry with me for seeing you, but something pulled me…” he trails off, disappointed because Max’s hands are no longer on him and he doesn’t know why until the alpha cups his face, wiping away the tears. Their presence surprises Arthur. _Bloody hormones._ He sighs and looks into Max’s eyes that are also his daughter’s eyes. “You married me that night in the tent.”

When Max is overcome by something: demons or happiness, he draws into himself as if afraid of unleashing the enormity of what he’s feeling. In the old days, he would run away, but these days he doesn’t run anymore. Instead, he kisses Arthur’s wet cheek and whispers: “That’s right. You’re mine.”


	5. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daku and Conch get married

Max trudges up the sand dune, huffing and puffing, struggling to keep the gear bag hooked over a shoulder in order to match the pace of his mate, who moves with surprising grace for an omega with a pronounced pregnancy bump. “Come on,” Arthur instructs, wholly unimpressed with the alpha’s laboring. They have to go far enough away from their village so the napping babies won’t be woken by gunfire. 

And so Gadget and Daku won’t mock him for receiving target practice from his mate. 

Unfortunately, it has not escaped Arthur’s attention that Max is a terrible shot. Furiosa had to save him when he missed the Bullet Farmer, and he was of no help during the Rock Riders’ invasion. “I don’t know how you survived so long on your own,” his mate has remarked on more than one occasion. The truth stings. Max is tough and a good close-quarters brawler, but he is no marksman, and on the vast plain sharpshooting is a valuable skill. Better to kill the devil when he’s on the horizon and not wait until he’s inside your hut. 

When they reach the top of the dune, Arthur wordlessly extends a hand and yanks the bag away from Max before descending the mound on his own and scaling the next nearest dune to set up the target. Lately, his mate has been short and moody with him and Max knows it’s because he feels ill from the pregnancy. Arthur had just adjusted to living as an un-pregnant omega and now he finds himself in a family way once more. The alphas have made plans to visit Bartertown to help Daku find a ring for little Conch, and he knows Arthur had hoped to accompany them. That is no longer a possibility.

Mostly, Max has tried to stay out of his way, picking and choosing moments when he thinks it’s safe to touch Arthur and kiss him. He watches the omega set up a crude wooden cutout that has been painted red with berry juice so they’ll be able to see the buckshots. He would offer to help, but that only makes things worse. Arthur hates being dependent on the alphas, and he insists on moving around until the very last moments of pregnancy. Max watches his mate hike up the dune once more, brow furrowed in concentration, and his chest swells with affection.

His stubborn, beautiful omega. 

Arthur glances up and must see the soft expression on his face because he sighs, annoyance evaporating from the amber oasis of his gaze. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel like myself lately.” 

An apology is not something Max is looking for, and certainly won’t accept, but he sees an open moment and steps forward to cup his mate’s face. His mouth presses to the hot flesh of Arthur’s brow. 

Just like that, they’re back to normal. That’s why Max loves Arthur—they understand each other. Even when they fight and bicker, there is a strong, undeniable undercurrent of love and respect between them. “Okay,” Arthur sighs, knowing he is forgiven, “Start with the rifle.” Max kneels in the sand and accepts the gun from his mate, balancing it on a knee and aiming the barrel at the red mark. He inhales deeply and fires on the exhale. Once. Twice. The crack of the gun ricochets off the dunes, Max’s ears ringing in recognition. Then he squints and glances up at Arthur.

“Did I hit it?”

Arthur furrows his brow in confusion. “No, you didn’t—“ He stops suddenly, eyebrows arching. “Max, can you see the target?” Max snorts. Of course he can _see_ it. His brows pinch together as he squints. _Sort of_. It’s that red blotch at the top of the yellow hill. He can see it well enough, anyway. That’s all he’s ever needed on the road: the ability to see vague shapes, threatening objects, the outline of a War Boy charging at him. Arthur slaps his forehead: “Stupid man. You can’t see.” Suddenly, he’s laughing and Max doesn’t understand why. “Crazy man!” his mate howls.

 

* * *

 

Arthur announces to the other alphas that they have an additional purchase to make in Bartertown: glasses for Max. They react as expected: Daku pinches his mouth into a thin line and Gadget howls with laughter. “Well, that explains it, anyway! We were wondering why Furiosa would attach herself to a road warrior who shoots like a War Pup!” 

Glowering only makes Gadget laugh harder until he’s bent at the waist, gleefully slapping his thighs. 

The alphas leave to prepare their bikes for the long journey while Max spends a moment soothing Arthur inside their hut. While the omega is no longer angry, he’s still sulking a bit because once again he’s left on baby duty and misses out on traveling the open road. “We’ll go to Bartertown once the baby’s here. Just the two of us,” he soothes, arms wrapped around Arthur’s waist, his chest pressed to the omega’s back. He pauses to nuzzle Arthur’s neck. “I could stay. Don’t want to leave you alone.”

He hates leaving the omegas on their own. Unguarded.

Arthur had been pretending to rearrange the bedding, but is really channeling disquiet into hut chores. He sets down the linens and sighs, arching into Max’s affections. “I’ll call on the Rock Rider Chief if I need help.”

Max grunts. “Your second mate.” He’s joking, but can’t stop the spike of anger from briefly overwhelming him as he slips away. Engines rumble just outside the hut, meaning Daku and Gadget are ready to go, and Max walks towards the hut entrance.

Arthur grabs him by the arm, stepping close so the hot swell of the omega’s stomach is pressed between them. “ _You’re_ my mate,” he insists, not for the first time, but Max never tires of hearing it. He grips the sides of Arthur’s face and kisses him, delighted in the intense reciprocation, the omega whimpering and nipping at his lip before they separate. “Mind those loose Bartertown omegas,” he teases, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

Max laughs and together they crouch beside Tallara’s bedding so he can say goodbye to his daughter. She’s sitting up on her own and eagerly snatches at his thumb when he extends a hand. “Take care of your dad, my beauty,” he instructs. Her brown curls wildly jut out from her skull, a post-nap dopey smile stretched across her face. Max leans down to kiss the top of her head and breathe in the scent. Maddeningly, scent is always the first thing he forgets, then the voice, followed by details of the face. He wills himself to remember this time, but knows such an effort is like clenching sand particles in his fist. Tallara kicks her feet, making nonsensical noises, experimenting with the first fragments of speech. 

“Don’t worry about us,” Arthur says, asking the impossible of his mate.

 

* * *

 

Gadget rides with a rifle strapped to his back, so he can swing it around and fire while riding, like the Valkyrie used to, but Max knows he can’t say, “I know a dead woman who shoots like you” because that’s one of those comments that earns him funny looks from people. Also out of the question: sharing the visions with Daku and Gadget because they’ll think he’s crazy. Mostly, he stays quiet on their travels, listening to the other men swap stories about life on the road. From what he gathers, life was hard for them too, just as life is hard for everyone. 

Of the three of them, Gadget is the best shot, which is why he’s joined them and rides at the front. If they come across any road pirates, Gadget will drop them before they can think to draw their weapons. Daku is more like him: quiet, introspective, perhaps worried about Conch who is as far along in his pregnancy as Arthur, but suffers from terrible morning sickness and spends much of the day resting inside their hut. The other alpha has added soothing herbs for pregnant omegas to their shopping list. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on his mood), Gadget talks enough for the both of them. The alpha seems incapable of going more than a handful of moments without sharing a story or anecdote about his travels.

“You act like quiet can kill you, mate,” Daku observes one night while they’re seated by a fire and Max snorts into his rat corpse.

Gadget’s grin is white against the black landscape. “I knew a bloke who died from not talking, actually. It’s a funny story…”

 

* * *

 

Bartertown has changed since the last time Max visited, but some things are the same: the wooden sign still stands out front, promising _A Better Tomorrow_ , dirt roads bustling with sales people who wear their strange metal umbrella hats to shield their faces from the sun and also to exhibit some of their smaller wares that dangle and sway as they move about. The air is thick and heavy with the smell of manure and hay from pens of animals bought and sold in the market. Further in, a sweeter aroma of soil from the various fruits, vegetables, and exotic flowers. Max briefly considers buying some for Arthur, but then thinks maybe the petals will be dry and wilted by the time they return.

Water is still a hot commodity and they’re assaulted upon arrival by a horde of salesmen promising cheap H20: tiny plastic bottles, no more than a shot of the stuff, and Max shakes his head to silently decline the offers. _Poor bastards_. Little do they know three nights west rests an oasis of water—not that they can ever share that information. One utterance of the precious treasure they’ve discovered and their village will be invaded by every tribe on the plain.

There are new features too: namely, rows of tents featuring wares and food, a better, more organized marketplace that Max finds easier to navigate than the old days, when the fall of the world was still too new and everyone was trying to survive so no one was making longterm plans for society-building. He recognizes the old auction stage where strong alphas and pretty omegas are being sold off as slaves, and the large cave sectioned off for the brothel. As mated alphas, they discreetly bow their heads and hurry past the man standing out front, promising them a, “Lovely time with lovely omegas. Dirt cheap!” steering their bikes into safer territory.

The new grid layout doesn’t prevent confusion, however. The marketplace is bustling, making it difficult to steer three bikes through the crowd, and while they find the healing herbs quickly, the rest of their needs are lost inside the labyrinth, so finally Daku relents and simply asks a man where he may find some shiny adornments for his beloved. They’re pointed in the right direction — a tent in the heart of town that contains tables lined with jewels: necklaces, tiaras, rings, bracelets, watches, all salvaged from the old world, and most missing stones or bent out of shape. Still, it’s nice to see such sparkly things, and the three of them leave their bikes out front (still within eyeshot because it’s not unlikely they’ll be nicked) to peruse silently, each of them awed by the exoticness. Gadget puts on a diamond tiara and grins at Max until the owner of the tent, a withered grey creature with a yellow mustache and beard, removes it from his head and scolds: “If ya want to see something, ask.”

Daku intervenes before they’re kicked out, explaining he’d like to see the selection of rings, and the old man treats them much better once he realizes at least one of them is a serious buyer and they’re not simply a cluster of trouble-making road warriors. “What size is the lucky omega?” he asks, smiling broadly, and Daku frowns, confessing he doesn’t know Conch’s ring size. Max’s hum conveys he recognizes this is indeed a problem, but like Daku, he doesn’t even know how ring sizes work.What’s a size six? Is that big or small? Most of the rings don’t even fit over Max’s second knuckle. Definitely designed for omegas—possibly children.

“We can figure it out,” Gadget assures the other alpha, picking up one of the rings and holding it up to his finger.

Picking out a ring turns out to be a taxing task. Most of them Daku deems too sparkly. “I don’t think Conch would like it,” he remarks, one ring after another. Max admittedly doesn’t know the youth as well as Daku, but he agrees. Nothing about the omega’s demeanor suggests he’s the type to parade around showing off his expensive possessions. Finally, the man shows him a more tasteful ring with a simple silver band and a pretty, small diamond in the middle. Looking at it, Max thinks of a rising sun. Daku holds it in his palm, humming in consideration. He puts it on his finger and it sticks at the second knuckle, which means it will probably fit Conch. “What do you think?” he asks them.

“A fine discovery,” Gadget approvingly notes and Max nods in agreement. 

“What do you want for it?” Daku asks, looking at the old man.

The yellow mustache upturns and the man happily drums on his chest, clearly pleased they’ve finally reached the only part of the transaction that interests him. “What’ve you got, my friend?”

Daku fishes inside his jacket and pulls out a beautiful pistol: silver, with intricate carvings along the sides and ivory handle. Gadget actually gasps when he sees it. “Oy, how long’ve you been hiding that from us?”

“Belonged to the Bullet Farmer,” Daku explains, ignoring Gadget, “I personally took it off his body when they brought him back.”

“After the she-alpha killed him,” the old man concludes, voice hushed in reverence as he takes the pistol to examine it, “Glory be, it’s true. There’s his mark,” he says, pointing to the image of a bullet on the handle.

“Furiosa,” Max corrects. He hates how quickly people forget their history, but doesn’t see the point in correcting the rest: technically, Furiosa only blinded him, but he finished the job. 

The man ignores him. “Son, you have a deal,” he laughs, giddy from the acquisition. As he should be. The Bullet Farmer’s pistol is a collector’s item, one far more valuable than Conch’s ring, but Max knows the alpha probably doesn’t have anything else with which to barter and is eager to secure the prize for his mate. 

He seems pleased by the time they leave, the ring safely pocketed inside his jacket. Gadget has already forgiven him for withholding the information about the Bullet Farmer’s pistol and claps him on the back. “Well done, mate. Conch will love it for sure.” Daku looks so content that Max flashes a slight smile. It’s nice to imagine a wedding, a happy event for the whole village. “Have you thought about how you’ll propose?”

Daku kicks up the stand and frowns as they begin the slow journey back towards Bartertown’s entrance. “What do you mean?”

Gadget rolls his eyes and groans, which Max now knows means Daku has asked something terribly naive and the other alpha is about to bestow upon them his worldly wisdom. “You have to ask first, mate. That’s what separates us from Immortan. Conch has to say yes.”

“Oh…” Daku frowns, gaze far off, grave with responsibility once more as he considers how the hell he’s going to ask Conch to marry him.

Next, they stop by a tent teeming with artificial limbs, braces, and spectacles—a whole wall of glasses from which Gadget makes selections and Max tries them on, then tries to read a chart of symbols propped against the far wall of canvas. Most of the lenses are far too strong and worsen his vision. Some aren’t strong enough. Finally, he puts on a pair of wire rims with lenses that sharpen the images. “I can see it!” Max declares, so amazed that he misses the other alphas sniggering. “Fish…bullet…skull…water.”

“Looks like we have a match,” the salesman smirks. He’s a tall man, hunched slightly like a sick tree.

Max gives him forty bullets for the spectacles, which the man wraps in cloth and places inside a canvas bag so they won’t be crushed during the trip home.

It’s takes a long time to get out of Bartertown because he and Gadget want to get gifts for their mates too (perish the thought of returning empty-handed), so Gadget picks up a silk ribbon and gardening tools for The Dag and Max secures a handsome belt and holster for Arthur. All of them dip into a tent with carved wooden children’s toys and pick up gifts for the sprogs too. 

Gadget keeps running into people he knows (more than a few smiling omegas, Max notices). Then he insists on stopping by the junk pit to see his old repair brothers—all with skin like leather hide and gleaming torsos covered in grease and dirt and identical white smiles. The tooth doctor must do a lot of business here. Gadget secures some tools and parts from his old friends: just as much as he can fit inside an empty bag he brought, but seems pleased with the bounty. “Should keep us up and running for a while,” he says, saluting the junk pit boys before they’re finally able to leave. They climb onto their bikes at the entrance and Gadget glances back at him. “Should wear your specs, Max!” 

His grin is playful, and clearly it’s a joke, but Max fishes out and dons them anyway. Amazingly, he can clearly see all the bike’s gears and indicators, plus both alphas, and the open plain ahead. In the distance, he sees a bird soaring in lazy circles. A wide grin stretches across his face as he revs the engine and pulls out behind Gadget and Daku.

 

* * *

 

_The Citadel, four hundred days earlier_

 

Immortan Joe is dead, but her grasp on the reins of power is tentative, at best. The War Boys eye her with suspicion, and since Furiosa refuses to use public lashings and executions to instill fear in her followers, she must lead with inspiration—by showing them what the Citadel _could_ be if they invest enough energy. But that will take time, and in the meantime, some of the alphas are growing restless. She tries to appease them by announcing the end of certain mandatory requirements: the War Boys no longer have to wear regulation gear, shave their heads, or paint themselves white. 

Surprisingly, most of them continue those traditions anyway. They even still call themselves _War Boys_ though there’s no war to fight in. Perhaps because it’s the only way they know.

Furiosa addresses the men directly to explain her plans. That helps a little bit, but does not entirely remove the possibility of mutiny.

She opens the Citadel’s gates for the first time ever and puts out the call: all capable alphas willing to work hard will be welcomed. All manner of road warriors arrive, some of them older, experienced hands who earn the quick respect of the War Boys. Furiosa appoints them to serve as her lieutenants and uses them as conduits to convey her wishes to the alphas, who help turn the arid landscape into fertile grounds in a few months. Alphas with engineering experience arrive and convert the underground aquifers into an irrigation system, and soon there is more than enough food to feed the entire populace, plus extra for the War Boys to take to Bartertown in exchange for weapons and spare mechanical parts.

Slowly, the real world becomes like the flashes she sees sometimes on the backs of her eyelids—little glimpses into the future—nothing that could have radical repercussions, but rather fleeting moments that reveal themselves like a wink and nod. Furiosa is observing the ground activity from the tower one evening when she spots one of the former road warriors: a leftover from the Bullet Farm, barking orders at the War Boys who are charged with rounding up weaponry for arsenal inventory. Daku, that’s his name, visited recently and suggested the inventory, followed by cleaning and repairs to all arms. He volunteered his services to her with a bowed head and clenched fist over his heart.

He seems sincere.

The alpha stands atop one of the cars, guiding the War Boys with sweeping arm gestures. They run off as ordered to gather the weapons and Daku silently watches, only briefly distracted when a thin, dark-haired omega walks by with a basket balanced on his head, linen-covered hips swaying gently.

_Interesting._

At nights, Furiosa permits the War Boys their fun (within reason). They can drink, but fraternizing with unwilling omegas is forbidden. They can swap stories, laugh, and even fight, as long as there is no property destruction and the rest of the Citadel doesn’t complain about the noise. Much has changed, but not her chronic insomnia, so one night Furiosa slides out of bed, careful not to wake Cheedo, and walks down to the main grounds. The War Boys are gathered around a roaring bonfire, cackling with laughter at a story as told by a visiting alpha: tall, broad in the shoulders, with a full head of dark hair. One of the mechanics from Bartertown, she recalls. He’s been charged with the upkeep of vehicles. His story is blue in nature, about a well-endowed omega from Bartertown’s brothel, but he catches her gaze before the punchline can be delivered, stuttering to a halt with an apology: “Forgive me, queen. I did not see you standing there.”

She smiles benevolently. “Continue, please.”

He does, and she isn’t able to focus on the ending of the tale because other thoughts distract her, though she makes sure to smile when the War Boys crow with laughter—to show she too enjoys when they’re happy. She’s distracted by another flash: this one concerning Daku and the mechanic— _Gadget_ , her brain supplies. Gadget on one knee, firing a rifle, while Daku fights a man clad in leather. Flaming huts. Rivers of blood streaming into a blue body of water. When she sees Max charging over the dunes, Furiosa understands.

She’s meant to send these men to Max’s village to help defend it.

Max doesn’t visit for a long time, however, and Toast guarantees it’s because he’s too busy putting a baby inside Larrikin, further promising she knows, exactly, when the omega will pop. Amused, Furiosa watches as the other omegas jeer her declaration and place their own bets on when their brother will give birth. At the heart of the debate is the assumption that Larrikin will birth a healthy child, no small feat in the middle of a fledgling village, unequipped with medical supplies and capable midwives. Conch has a bit of training, and is a sweet child, but he’s no match for some of the more experienced women. 

Something like guilt creeps through her veins. Perhaps she should have sent Max additional men or more supplies.

Through the fog, she becomes aware of Cheedo’s wide gaze. She’s just come in from picking the new ripe tomatoes and her hair is still covered by a white shawl. _Angel._ Another word from Ms. Giddy’s books. People used to believe angels were watching over them because the idea of an endless, indifferent chasm is too terrifying. The omega reaches for her hand and squeezes it. “All right?”

Sometimes, Furiosa drifts far away for a bit, but always comes back. She squeezes her mate’s hand and flashes a smile. “Fine, beloved.”

Leadership is draining business, and perhaps the most disturbing discovery in her time as the Citadel’s leader is that most people don’t like change, and would very much like to preserve many aspects of the old society’s structure. For starters, the War Boys call her _queen_ even though she has no desire to be one. If it was up to Furiosa, she wouldn’t be the official figurehead of the Citadel at all, but visitors long to negotiate with a designated leader. And then there’s the War Boys’ insistence on serving as cultish sycophants. 

Some break the mold. Toast, for example, has been reading voraciously since the Immortan’s death and is cultivating (and curating) the Citadel’s first library—free for all. Capable is a bit of a bike head these days, dabbling in repairs and all kinds of inventions that Furiosa doesn’t pretend to understand. All she knows is the young omega is frequently covered in grease and wears a wide grin as she shows off devices comprised of churning gears that usually perform some sort of menial task like opening cans of food.

Cheedo, her mate, prefers growing the food, much like her old mentor, The Dag. She knows the omega misses her friend, face brightening whenever Furiosa mentions Max has visited because she thinks maybe, this time, The Dag will be traveling with him. She never is, and Furiosa hates seeing the flash of disappointment on Cheedo’s face. _One day_ , she silently vows, _I will reunite the sisters and brothers_.

She decides that the next time Max visits, they will make such plans. 

What she certainly doesn’t expect is a visit from Gadget. He roars through the gates on bikeback, covered from head-to-toe in dirt, indicating he’s been on the road many days, and the bike pulls a cart filled with gasoline tanks. Just back from Gas Town, then. Perhaps dropping by the Citadel on his way back to the village. “Hail!” he crows in greeting, offering a hand that Furiosa grips. Some of the War Boys hear his arrival and walk over to also greet their old friend, and Gadget humors them with a few jokes before he meets her gaze and says: “I need to speak with you privately.”

 

* * *

 

She asks the War Boy guards to leave them in private inside Immortan Joe’s old vault, which has become her office-slash-mission control for strategic planning and the seed bank. Without an audience, Gadget is much more reserved—perhaps even grave. He opens his mouth to begin explaining, but Cheedo walks in, eyes widening upon seeing the man she knows was sent to the village to offer aid. “What happened?” she asks at once.

“Cheedo…” Furiosa warns.

The omega ignores her, gaze fixed on Gadget. “Is someone hurt? The Dag?”

Gadget warily glances at Furiosa, silently asking for permission to continue. She sighs and nods. Now that Cheedo knows something is amiss, she’ll never get her mate to leave them in private.

“Nothing is wrong. Nothing big, anyway,” he begins, looking to Cheedo, “Don’t worry about The Dag. Worst that’s happening to her right now is she’s missing her mate,” he adds with a grin.

Cheedo glowers. “ _You’re_ her mate?” she asks, suddenly unimpressed with their visitor.

She can tell there’s about to be a bit of a tiff when Gadget furrows his brow and opens his mouth in surprise, so she interjects: “Continue, please.”

Slowly, his gaze peels away from the omega and returns to her. “We have two pregnancies: Arthur and Conch. I made the trip because the other alphas obviously want to be with their mates. Arthur is doing well, but Conch has very bad morning sickness.”

“Pregnant again?” Cheedo gasps, promptly forgetting the feud and clearly torn (as Furious is) between celebrating the news of their pregnancies and expressing concern for Conch. Morning sickness means vomiting, and little Conch doesn’t have a spare pound to lose. 

“Ay, all important news, but the reason I’m here is a favor to Daku. He wants me to come here in secret to invite you and all the wives—“

“Sisters,” Furiosa corrects. No one will call them the Immortan’s wives in her presence ever again.

Gadget nods once. “ _Sisters_ …I’m here to invite you to the village for a wedding.” A slow grin bleeds across his lips when they stare at him in confusion. “Daku is going to ask Conch to marry him— _has_ asked him, by now, I hope. He was meant to do it while I was on the gas run.”

“Glory be!” Cheedo sings, gazing at Furious in excitement, “Can we go?”

Her lips quirk into a sort of half-smile because she doesn’t wish to spoil the joyous announcement, though certain considerations are inevitable: can she risk leaving the Citadel unsupervised for a week in order to visit the village and stay for a wedding? Perhaps sending the omegas without her is a possibility, but then they will be traveling under-guarded with only Gadget as their protector, and while she values his services, Furiosa is not going to send her mate into the desert with him.

“ _Please_ ,” Cheedo pleads, eyes preemptively flooding with tears because she fears Furiosa will say no. This is the longest the sisters have been separated, and Furiosa knows how much the Citadel omegas miss their brothers and sister. 

This is a stupid risk. Superfluous. Decadent. There’s too much to do at the Citadel, and not enough time as there is. Furiosa could delegate her responsibilities, but then again she prefers being around to manage their implementation. Gadget looks at her with raised brows, as if to ask: _Are you really going to make your mate stand here and cry over a wedding_? 

She makes a soothing noise and closes the space between them to comfort Cheedo and kiss her brow and mouth. “Yes, we can go,” she smiles, laughing when the omega’s arms loop around her neck in an enthusiastic hug. 

 

* * *

 

“How tall are you?” Toast demands upon meeting Gadget. She’s always collecting little bits of information on people. Furiosa isn’t sure why. 

Gadget warily gazes down at her. “Ten and a half hands.”

She squints and hums, processing the information, filing it away in the vault of her mind. Toast can recite facts she’s learned about people from thousands of days ago and Furiosa is fairly sure the omega has a photographic memory. They’re loading the bikes, preparing for the long haul west. Furiosa doesn’t want to take an ostentatious ride like her new rig—no longer _War Rig_ , just _Rig_ —because it may attract unwanted attention. No need to broadcast the fact that the Citadel is unguarded by Furiosa. Better to travel small, light, and dynamic. If pirates attack them on the road, they’ll have a better chance of losing them on bikes.

Capable insists on riding her own bike, which Furiosa supports because she knows the omega has been practicing and wants to test her skills on the open road. She’s on the bike, already donning goggles to protect her eyes from all the dirt and soot. Toast is seated behind her, arms wrapped around her sister’s waist. Capable wants to know: “Is that with your boots or without?”

A slow blink. “Without…” he trails off, looking to Furiosa for help.

“All right, that’s enough interrogating,” she chuckles, thighs stretching around the girth of the bike, fingers clenching the throttle and revving it.

“You and The Dag will have tall babies,” Capable observes.

Cheedo’s arms tighten around her waist. “Can we go?” the omega spits.

She grips the omega’s fingers and brings them up to her mouth to kiss the knuckles. When Furiosa glances over her shoulder, Cheedo is no longer sulking. Her hair is covered in heavier linen, wrapped to protect her from the elements, and she offers a sly smile.

Gadget is a bit dazed, but nods and climbs onto his bike. “Follow me. I’ll show you the way.”

“Alphas always say that,” Capable mutters, but no one hears her over the roar of the engines.

 

* * *

 

Daku asks three favors of the other alphas upon their return from Bartertown. First, he asks they keep the trip a secret from Conch. After all, if the youth knows they visited the marketplace, he’ll wonder why Daku returned ostensibly empty-handed. They agree to tell him that the trip was to the Bullet Farm to pick up additional ammo, a safe alibi because Conch doesn’t know anything about weaponry, isn’t interested in their arsenal, and therefore probably won’t ask to see the acquisition. Arthur and The Dag also agree to this fake story, even though they’ve secretly received their holster and gardening gifts (respectively), and are quite chuffed with the haul. The Dag ties the silk ribbon around Gadget’s wrist while uttering, “Pretty,” and though she’s missed the point of the gift, Gadget grins and wears the ribbon for many days. They agree to keep the babies’ gifts secret until after the proposal because children lack subtlety and may play too loudly with the wooden toys and alert Conch to the ploy.

Second, he asks Gadget to visit the Citadel in order to invite the other omegas, and Furiosa, to the wedding. He would have asked Max to go, but Arthur is pregnant, and it’s not right to ask an alpha to leave his vulnerable mate. They concoct a cover story about the alpha running to Gas Town, which he actually will visit because they are low on petrol, and afterwards will stop at the Citadel. The detour will tack on additional days to Gadget’s venture, but unforeseen obstacles emerge while traveling Fury Road all the time, and Conch won’t think his extended trip is unusual.

Third, he asks for discretion. While Gadget is gone, Daku needs to propose, and he has a general idea of how he’d like to do it but the plan entails a bit of fabricated privacy — an illusion of intimacy. Because their village is so small, everyone knows everyone’s business, and Gadget asks the others, should they hear two voices softly murmuring outside at nightfall, not to leave their huts to investigate.

All agree to the arrangement.

He’s surprised by how nervous he is. Surely, the knowledge that Conch loves him and wishes for a wedding should soothe his nerves and instill him with confidence, but Daku finds his hands shaking the evening he’s decided to ask Conch to marry him. He hides the tremors by cleaning his guns, breathing steadily during disassembling, polishing, running the rod into the barrel, and then assembling once more. Conch watches this process from their bedding, hands tucked beneath his chin, obviously bored out of his mind.

_And why would you want to marry a boring old fool?_

Daku shoos away the thought and grunts, packing away the guns with not a little annoyance. 

“Are you okay?” Conch finally asks. This is the first night in ages where he hasn’t been curled up in immense pain and sickness. Poor thing is probably desperate for normal interactions, and here Daku is, acting strangely. 

Daku peeks outside their hut. The sun finally sunk behind sand dunes and the moon hovers large and yellow in the sky. It’s the largest he’s seen the moon in a long time, and he can actually see all its dark blotches. “Let’s go for a walk,” he suggests. At first, Conch’s brow pinches in confusion and he looks over to sleeping Rabi, so Daku adds: “Not far. Just to the water. We’ll be back soon.”

Conch forgets his objections when they walk outside and he sees the moon and gasps. “It’s a supermoon,” he explains. “Ms. Giddy taught us about the planets’ rotations. It means our planet is the closest to the moon it can get in its orbit. See those dark parts? Those are craters.”

Their fingers are laced as they walk and Daku flashes a smile as he tries to focus on what Conch is saying, but meanwhile his heart thunders, right beneath the jacket pocket where Conch’s ring rests wrapped in cloth. “Lore says those dark parts are a face.” He guides them around the water, over the green and past Goat. There’s been much debate among the village about if the creature ever sleeps. The Dag claims he does, but jumps to attention whenever he hears them coming. When they pass, Goat is awake, lazily chomping on some foliage, eyes black and blank as he glances their way. Daku reflexively imagines Conch reacting a similar way when he unveils the ring.

Conch looks up at the moon and frowns. “I don’t see a face.”

They pause by the piano, which the alphas worked to restore after the storm. The instrument is now emptied of sand, internal parts cleaned with care, and functional once more. “Well, that’s because you know they’re craters,” he jokes, flashing a shaky smile and gesturing to the piano bench: “Uh, let’s sit.” Their first conversation took place at the piano, and Daku thinks it fitting that they’re here, at this moment, once more. Conch is confused but agrees and sits down, fingers instinctively splaying across the keys, only ghost-touching because he’s afraid to wake the village. “You should play.” When Conch glances back to the huts, Daku offers an encouraging smile. “Softly. Go on. What was the piece you played the day we met?”

He can see the youth flush, even beneath the dim illumination of moonlight. “Oh…that was Chopin.” His spine straightens and he takes a deep breath before playing, softly, and still the music carries over the landscape. Goat stops eating and looks over at them, but there is no movement from the huts. The others continue to pretend to sleep.

The music is beautiful, delivered with finesse and grace. Conch is a vessel for beautiful things in an ugly world, and if Daku was a braver man he would tell him so, but in the time it would take the thought to leave his mouth, he would feel saccharine and foolish. “When I was a small boy…” he begins, aware of Conch tensing a little at his side. Since their meeting, he knows the youth has wanted this of him—for Daku to explain who he was before meeting Furiosa and before living inside the Citadel. The youth would poke and prod but never demand, and Daku wants to at least give him this much now—for Conch to know who he is, as a man. 

“I would asked my parents when we were going home. Funny, even as a boy I knew this world of ours wasn’t right, but it was the only way I ever knew. And still…” he trails off, shaking his head, “Anyway, my parents tried to convince me: this tent, this village, this is your home, and still every day I asked, ‘When are we going home?’ until one day my father got very cross with me and shook me by the shoulders and he said, ‘ _This_ is your home.’ I remember crying.” Conch frowns but continues to play, occasionally casting furtive glances his way. “That’s my last memory of them. The Bullet Farmer raided our village the next day, killed everyone except the children, who he took with him. I was raised at the Bullet Farm and that never felt like home, left for a bit at my half-life and tried surviving on the road, but that didn’t feel right either. Returned to the Bullet Farm and tried again and every day felt like I was watching myself outside of my own body. I felt…numb.” 

Conch’s fingers are lithe and delicate as they pluck the keys. It soothes him to watch the omega play, makes confessing all of it easier. “And the numbness became normal. Truthfully, I was grateful because it protected me from the worst things I saw: all the death and destruction. When Furiosa told us about this place and what she wanted us to do, it sounded like a suicide mission, and I was game for it. I didn’t care, back then, what happened to me. Until I met you…” Conch’s hand slips, hitting a sour note, and Daku’s mouth fondly quirks. Their child is growing inside the omega’s stomach and still he makes Conch nervous sometimes. 

“Sorry,” the youth whispers.

Daku chuckles and leans over to kiss his cheek and gently nuzzle the flesh. Conch’s skin is always smooth and smells sweet, even more so these days now that he’s pregnant. _Enough babbling, you old fool. Ask him_. What he wants to say is: all these years, he thought happy, content people were stupid or lying. No one could actually feel joy in this world, even the glimpses of a child playing or loving mates were an illusion, temporary, dry kindling awaiting a spark. When Furiosa revealed Conch’s piano, he asked what it was for, not because he didn’t know, but because he couldn’t imagine what purpose music had in their world anymore.

He understands now.

“You’re my home. For the first time, I feel whole.”

When his voice trembles, Conch stops playing and turns towards him, their noses brushing. “Daku…” he begins softly, a tear sliding down his cheek.

 _Hell._ He hadn’t meant things to be this macabre, and certainly doesn’t want to upset Conch and make him cry, so he fumbles inside the jacket and draws out the clump of cloth. It’s dark, so Conch’s brow furrows in confusion until he peels away the corners like the petals of a flower and holds up the ring. He thinks: _I don’t know how much time I have, but I want to spend every second with you._ He says: “Say you’ll marry me so I stop babbling like a bloody fool.”

Conch gasps, laughs, and kisses him all in the same moment. More tears, but they’re happy ones nows. “Yes, yes,” he whispers and the ring slides into place—snug, but not too tight—and Daku thanks…he doesn’t know who. Maybe the moon. 

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t tell Conch about Gadget or his omega sisters traveling west to visit for the wedding. They go to bed afterwards, or at least lay in the hut together, Conch obsessively gazing at his ring as Daku wraps his arms around the youth’s waist, chin resting atop his shoulder. “No one’s ever given me anything like this before,” he says, to which Daku silently responds: _I would hope not_. His fingertips graze the Immortan’s brand. “I don’t know what a wedding is supposed to be like.”

“The Dag says she knows. She’s seen photos in books.” He presses his lips to the curve of Conch’s neck. “Sleep, love.”

Conch wiggles in his arms, pressing the warm swell of his rear against the alpha’s crotch. “I want to…I’m sorry. My stomach…”

They haven’t been able to mate lately due to the illness. Daku shushes him and presses another kiss to his jaw. “When you feel better.” He doesn’t want the omega to think he would ever hold something like that against him, or force him to rut when he’s not feeling up for it.

He watches Conch wiggle his finger, still admiring the ring.

 

* * *

 

“Very handsome,” Arthur approvingly notes the first time Max tries on his glasses. “And you can see?”

“Everything,” Max chuckles, still a bit amazed. Now that he can see, the very idea of _not_ being able to see feels like a death sentence. He’d been so preoccupied living moment-to-moment that it never once occurred to him to consider his vision. _Deaf and blind_. But Max can see in other ways people cannot, the ways that have to remain a secret or people will think he’s crazy. 

“ _Everything_?” the omega purrs, hitching up linens a bit, revealing a creamy thigh. He’s standing at the other end of the hut, having just put down Tallara for an afternoon nap, and Max’s eyes widen as he adjusts the spectacles and enjoys a gander.

A smile splits Arthur’s face until a mighty engine roars outside and Dog goes mad barking. Arthur is still smiling, but there is new excitement percolating beneath the expression as he charges outside, Max close at his heels. She hasn’t brought the War Rig — _‘course she hasn’t_ — Max scolds himself. That would be an unnecessary spectacle. They’re on bike-back, Furiosa and the sisters, and before Max can utter so much as a _ta-da_ , Arthur takes off running, laughter flying from his throat. The Dag tears out of her hut and flies past Max, a streak of white, and charges after her brother. “Glory, glory!” she cries.

Toast is lightest on her feet, running before Capable has even kicked down the stand, right into Arthur’s arms. “Careful!” Max barks, afraid of the sisters jostling his mate too roughly — placing too much strain on his swollen stomach — their child. 

The smallest sister offers a superior scowl. “Nice to see you too, Max.” Then he’s forgotten again as Toast offers a glowing smile to her brother, cupping his face, turning the visage this way and that to inspect him — to see if Max has been adequately caring for him. “Two babies,” she sighs in wonder, touching the swell.

“You’ll be next,” Arthur chuckles, raking fingers through the dark, short-cropped strands.

Toast smirks. “No alpha will ever touch me again, I can tell you that much, brother.”

“They’re not all bad.” Arthur glances over his shoulder, to where Max is awkwardly standing by the hut.

An unimpressed shrug of her shoulder. “That may be, but I have no desire for one.”

Gadget is at the front of the pack, covered in dust, but smiling. “Welcome, welcome, lovely creatures! I’m sure what my dear companion Max meant to say is, you are most welcome to our humble village.”

The others have parked their bikes and alighted, Furiosa tall and statuesque, wiping her hands on slacks, freeing fingers of grease and sweat. She catches Max’s eye and smiles. “Well, don’t you look wise.” Furiosa taps her nose and it’s then that Max realizes he’s still wearing the glasses. He self-consciously mutters and quickly removes, folds, and pockets them. The other alpha grins, taking her time as she saunters over, already self-possessed and confident even though she’s technically the outsider in their village. The omegas stand in a small cluster, touching each other’s faces and hair, bubbling in excited conversation that Max can’t hear, and feels slightly annoyed because of it.

Suddenly, Conch runs out of his hut, blinking blearily, obviously having just woken from a deep slumber. He looks much more pregnant than Arthur, but that may be because he’s naturally so small. The moment he sees the bikes, and the omegas, and his mind pieces together reality, he bursts into tears. The omegas run to him, since Conch appears to be paralyzed, weeping —happy tears, Max realizes— when the sisters and Arthur laugh, cooing and comforting him with hugs and kisses to his face as Conch whimpers, “Are you here? You’re really here?”

Max slips his glasses back on, thinking maybe he’ll have a better chance reading lips, and spots the ring on Conch’s finger. It appears Daku went through with his plan. Furiosa must also spot the band because she hums and leans closer to him. “So a wedding it is, hm?” Max noncommittally hums, still unsure of what this _wedding_ business entails. He hopes it won’t involve him making a speech. Max realizes that Furiosa is allowing the omegas some privacy, a moment to enjoy their reunion, as she gazes around the village, noting the huts, Dog, whose tail thumps blissfully as he sniffs at the bare legs of the new omegas, Goat (uncaring, lazily munching on grass), the water, and finally Dag and Gadget’s irrigation system — modest and small — and suddenly Max is self-conscious. He should have made a better effort helping with the crops. Furiosa has gifted him a beautiful mate — one, almost two children — and a new home and tribe. The least he could do is help with gardening.

“You’ve done well, Max,” she says, gripping his shoulder and squeezing it.

The words briefly overwhelm him, and being unsure what to say (or how to ever properly thank her), he nods to the piano. “Conch likes that.”

She smiles and it’s nice to see her face free of bruises and blood. “I knew he would.”

The Dag pushes the headscarf off Cheedo’s hair, stroking the long dark strands in what Max perceives as a friendly manner until the taller omega stoops down and kisses the smaller woman’s mouth. Though, even that isn’t necessarily unusual because omegas are always affectionate with one another (nuzzling and kissing one another’s faces), but then The Dag lingers and Cheedo leans into the embrace. Max clears his throat, experiencing a spike of panic because he’s afraid he’ll be the one who has to peel The Dag off Furiosa’s omega, maybe even break up a fight, but when he glances at the other alpha, her face is serene. His gaze flits over to Gadget next, who observes the interaction in what can only be described as pure shock. Max realizes he’s never seen the alpha struck silent before, and decides it’s a rather nice change of pace. Nor do the other omegas appear to think this is unusual. Arthur, for his part, is completely ignoring them as he laughs and touches poor Conch’s weepy face as Capable shows the youngest omega her goggles, hoping to distract him from crying.

Daku finally makes an appearance, as shy and timid as Max feels in the presence of omegas, slowly emerging from the hut and offering a crooked smile when the omegas erupt in excited titters. “Is this him? This is the one?” Capable cries, smiling as she approaches the alpha to look at him. Daku weathers this examination bravely, offering a non-threatening, “Hello,” when the omegas hurry over to look at him and touch his holster and jacket.

“How old are you?” Toast asks suspiciously, ignoring Conch’s horrified utterance of _Toast_.

Daku grins, unoffended, maybe even amused. “As old as the stars.”

This apparently is the correct response because she grins and laughs.

Giggling, The Dag grips Cheedo’s hand and drags her over to Gadget. “This is my mate,” she presents proudly, missing the hostile scowl Cheedo shoots up at the poor alpha.

“I know. We met.” Nothing that could be mistaken as warmth in her voice.

“Isn’t he handsome? Gadget, this is Cheedo. Isn’t she so beautiful, so fair?” she dips down to nuzzle Cheedo’s smooth cheek, distracting her into briefly smiling. Gadget is still experiencing some kind of severe shock, staring at them. “Come!” she declares, gripping both their hands and dragging them across the way towards their hut.

Max’s heart skips a beat at the audaciousness. The Dag hasn’t even asked Furiosa’s permission to steal away her mate. Gadget stumbles after them, casting a helpless look their way, perhaps searching for some kind of guidance. Furiosa barks with laughter, “Come now, young man! Chin up! Surely, you don’t object to the attention of two beautiful omegas?” Speechless, Max looks at her, and the surprise must be clear on his face because she howls and claps his back. “Are things so stuffy here? Next you’ll be handing out chastity belts.”

“But…she’s your mate,” he objects weakly. If Gadget ever tried to touch Arthur, Max would tear him limb from limb.

“She’s still my mate,” Furiosa lightly replies. “But Cheedo has great love for many people, Max. Just as your mate loves his sisters and brother in a way different from how he loves you.” _But Arthur doesn’t sleep with them_ , Max silently thinks. A private thought. At least, he thought so. The other alpha smirks and shakes her head, looking at him with what might be pity. “If I don’t give her freedom, how am I different than the Immortan?” 

 

* * *

 

Arthur is giddy now that his sisters are staying at the village, and they’ve planned to clear out Daku and Conch’s hut so they can all sleep together the first night, as they used to sleep in the Immortan’s vault, and catch up about their many days apart. He’ll bring Tallara with him because he wants the baby to meet her aunts, and the omegas want to get to know the baby — just as The Dag will bring Gur and Conch will introduce Rabi to the pack. 

This means that the alphas will be left to their own devices. Furiosa has announced she will bunk with Max, while Daku (by default) will have to stay with Gadget. 

Aside from Furiosa, no one is happy with this arrangement. Daku wants to spend the night with his newly betrothed, while Gadget is still shellshocked from the other day. The next morning, when he spotted his fellow road warrior stumble from the hut, Max asked him (innocently) how he was fairing, and Gadget, hair wild and eyes bloodshot, shook his head and mumbled, “There is much I do not understand in this world, brother.”

Max shares his confusion as he watches Arthur gather some supplies—just the things he’ll need throughout the night: a blanket for Tallara, the little wooden rocking horse that calms her if she’s feeling moody. Their daughter is already at Conch’s, being fussed over by the omegas. “Don’t see why you have to spend the night,” he mutters, objecting once again to this arrangement. It’s absurd to feel stress, since Arthur will be twenty hands away, but Max suddenly hates this secret club of which the omegas are members. 

His mate is glowing, ignoring Max’s sour mood, “I missed them, crazy man. And I want Tallara to get to know her aunts.”

He festers by the hut’s flaps, glowering as Arthur puts the items onto a linen and folds the corners. “Have you and Conch….you know…?” His face burns the moment he blurts the words, mortified by his own inarticulateness and clumsiness.

Arthur, understandably, is confused — looking up at him with a furrowed brow before amazement dawns across his face. “Are you asking me if I’ve rutted with Conch?”

Max feels like an overgrown child, shifting weight from foot-to-foot. “I thought…Dag and Cheedo seem…close.”

He expects anger or annoyance, but not bubbling laughter. Arthur looks at him with affection as he stands, the bundle clutched in his hand, and walks to the alpha. “Oh, Max,” he sighs, cupping a bearded cheek, the fingertips cool and tender as they stroke his jaw. “We all found comfort in our own ways…back then. Dag and Cheedo had each other, Toast had her books, Capable lived for Ms. Giddy’s classes, Conch played his piano, Splendid and her defiance…”

“And you?” Max likes this—just the two of them, talking—Arthur standing close enough to smell his sweet scent. Though he’s been a fool and doesn’t deserve it, Max clasps the omega’s hips with his hands, gently squeezing. Arthur allows it.

A smile, the slow blossom saved just for Max, and he temporarily feels better. The omega doesn’t smile that way when he’s with his sisters and brother. 

“I had hope.”

 

* * *

 

The babies’ eyes are huge as they stare up at the excited faces of their aunts. A cacophony of noise, the hut too small, and it’s mad they’ve decided to pile in here together, but Conch’s heart hammers happily, head swirling as he breathes the rich, familiar scents of his sisters, face aching as he smiles and watches the omegas fuss over Rabi. “He’s beautiful, Conch,” Capable coos, burying her face in the dark hair. “He looks like you and smells like that alpha of yours. 

This pleases Conch enormously. “Daku has been holding him more. I think he’s imprinted.” 

Toast tickles under the baby’s chin, earning a gummy smile. “That one treats you well?”

“Oh yes,” Conch coos, accepting Rabi back into his arms when the baby reaches for him. “He’s our king, isn’t that right?” Rabi smiles as if in agreement.

Conch misses when Toast rolls her eyes, but Arthur sees it and smirks. Their sister doesn’t mean it in a malicious way, but Conch has always been a bit of a romantic. He used to think some alpha hero was coming to save him from the Immortan. In the end, they had to save themselves. “Daku does fuss over him,” he offers, tossing a reassuring smile Conch’s way. Daku is a good man, and Arthur appreciates how the alpha has treated his brother.

“As he should,” Cheedo huffs, head resting on The Dag’s shoulder. They both look tired, but happy, with fingers laced and hands resting on The Dag’s thigh. Gur rests on her lap, taking lazy swipes at her long, dark hair. She’s no longer throwing barbs at Gadget, but still treats all other male alphas (apart from the babes) with a healthy dose of suspicion.

“And Max?” Capable asks, untying her pigtails and shaking loose the braids. Tallara watches this display with wide, appreciative eyes. She’s never seen red hair before. Arthur smiles and kisses the top of her head, but the baby’s attention is fixated on her aunt.

Conch grins. “He thinks Larrikin hung the moon.”

The omegas giggle, happy their brother is being cared for but also because it’s funny to think of alphas as doting, loyal figures instead of the constant threat they used to be to all of their lives. Toast, as always, is the first to sober and get down to business. “When will the wedding be?”

“Soon,” Conch vaguely answers, “I want to feel well during it, and I’ve felt sick the past few days, but I feel good today,” he adds, hoping to cut off the deluge of concern from his sisters.

Which is sort of like hoping water won’t be wet.

“Sick?” Toast frowns, resting the backs of her fingers against his brow. “Fever?”

As Capable asks: “Are you eating? Keeping it down?”

Arthur quietly watches Conch field the questions: _no fever, just nauseous; not eating much, but that’s not unusual; sharp pains sometimes in the abdomen._ His gaze slides over to the other omegas, particularly The Dag, who watches Conch thoughtfully, a piece of hay jutting out from between her lips. He can tell she’s thinking—silently assessing the situation. His sister has always had incredible instincts when it comes to pregnancies. “I’ll officiate,” she says suddenly, cutting off the flood of questions. Conch looks at her with wide eyes. “I know the prayers. I can marry you tomorrow, if you like.”

Their brother laughs joyously, saying yes, he’d like that, while thanking The Dag for her generousness. The rest of the omegas rush to make plans: what Conch will wear, where the villagers will sit, if Furiosa will be the one to give him away (probably not, Toast says, because she hates that archaic tradition — too closely resembling the sale of property). And all the while, Arthur watches The Dag because he knows something is going on. He can also tell she is considering him from her peripheral, even though it appears she’s devoting all of her attention to Conch.

Finally, she asks: “Larrikin, will you help me find Goat?”

If she doesn’t tie him up for the night, he sometimes gets into the crops, however never before has The Dag needed his help to find the beast. Arthur agrees, knowing this is an excuse to speak with him privately, and leaves Tallara with Capable. When they’re outside, huddled in the dark beside the ashen fire pit, she whispers: “There’s something wrong with the baby.”

The air wafting across the water dampens the pit’s soot smell and Arthur instantly feels sick. “What?” he rasps. A million things can go wrong during an omega’s pregnancy, but the most dire danger involves any anomaly that requires surgery. Medical tools are in short supply and the desert isn’t a sterile environment. Chances are, if they have to cut open Conch, he’ll get an infection and die, and the baby will very likely follow soon after.

“Dunno,” she replies and Arthur feels annoyed.

“Don’t say anything then,” he snaps. No need to upset Conch over The Dag’s suspicions, however historically accurate they may have been.

His eyes have adjusted to the dark and he can see The Dag quirk a brow. “The sisters should stay until the baby comes. We’ll need them to help. You should tell Furiosa.”

 _Why me_? Arthur thinks miserably, even though he knows the answer. They’re the only ones who know, and The Dag feels she’s already asked too much by stealing away Cheedo overnight — indeed, a most generous concession made by Furiosa. Arthur has played a valuable role in Furiosa’s new annex and she feels indebted to him, not simply for procreating, but also responding magnificently during the Rock Riders scare and subsequent negotiations. Quite simply, he’s the reason they’re all still alive.

Arthur states the obvious: “She won’t want them to stay that long.” They’ll need both Toast and Capable to help with the delivery, and Cheedo definitely won’t return to the Citadel without her sisters, even if her alpha demands it. Arthur knows this because he would take the same stance. The Dag watches him work it out, waiting, until Arthur sighs and adds: “Fine. I’ll go ask.”

 

* * *

 

Max tries to tidy up the hut and then lingers by the flaps, nervously watching as Furiosa looks around. He’s embarrassed by their meager set-up, and suddenly everything seems pitifully inadequate, even the things he previously liked very much: the nest of linens where he and Arthur rut, the smaller patch against the opposite wall that is Tallara’s bed, and the low stand he set up in between their sleeping quarters where he keeps supplies: guns, bullets, the tokens he brought back from Bartertown, and now his glasses, which are neatly folded by the edge.

“Um, you can sleep…here…” he mumbles, pulling off some of the linens from their bedding and placing it by the other wall so Furiosa can have her own space.

He can tell the other alpha is amused as she watches him. While Max makes the effort to set her up, he realizes that the sheets will reek of him and Arthur. “Uh, you sure you don’t want to stay with Gadget?” he offers, hoping she’ll take him up on the offer.

Furious looks at him for a long, hard moment before saying: “No.”

Max hesitates, absorbing the harsh tone, and then it occurs to him: Of course Furiosa doesn’t want to sleep in that hut. She’s a gracious leader, but smelling that particular blend of scents would test even her great patience. His ears burn as he pretends to fix the bedding, feeling like a chastised child, and badly wishing Arthur would come save him from himself. “I’m tired. Gonna sleep,” he announces, trudging over to what’s left of their bedding and curling up on his side, still dressed in all his gear, including the boots and brace. He’s not going to undress in front of Furiosa. Totally dressed, he still feels naked under the light of her knowing gaze.

Nothing, followed by amused chuckling: “Goodnight, Max.”

He sleeps approximately ten minutes before Daku charges into their hut and announces: “I _cannot_ sleep in the same hut as _that_ man.” Max sits up slowly, blinking until his eyes focus and he sees Furiosa sitting up as well. Maybe she never fell asleep. Her metal arm is detached and laying at her side, the stub splayed casually across her knees. Daku looks at them imploringly, perhaps waiting for someone to agree that Gadget is insufferable. “He never shuts his bloody mouth!”

“Oh, pardon me for being a good host!” Gadget cries before he’s even inside the hut. He has to stoop slightly so his forehead doesn’t collide with the top of the threshold. “I was just making conversation, wasn’t I? Making the agonizingly awkward moments tick by slightly faster—“

“Walhalla, save me! He’s still talking!”

Max is afraid they’re going to come to blows, so he stands up slowly, murmuring, “Now, now, now,” holding up soothing hands. Perhaps detecting the escalating emotions, Furiosa stands as well, affixing her mechanical arm once more. 

“This is bloody stupid. I’m going back to my hut,” Daku barks.

Though he harbors deep sympathy for that desire, Max knows the omegas are enjoying their time together, and will not be happy if their reunion isn disturbed. “No,” Furiosa confirms a moment later, gaze steady when Daku wheels around to face her. Max takes half a step forward, just in case. He doesn’t suppose Daku will do anything mad like attack Furiosa but he also knows how much he misses Arthur. It’s the kind of irrational grief that can make an alpha do crazy things. “One night. That’s all they’re asking,” and then she surprises them all by adding: “Stop being a pup.”

Gadget explodes in laughter and Max notices the playful gleam in Furiosa’s gaze. She’s teasing him. He’s never heard her tease anyone before. Of course, beyond barking orders and making painful near-deathbed confessions, they haven’t spoken much. “You are, brother!” Gadget wails, nearly weeping from laughter, “Acting just like some lovesick pup.”

Daku’s face briefly darkens. He shifts, takes his medicine, and smirks a moment later. “Strange, isn’t it? To be free for so long and then suddenly on a leash?”

“Ay,” Gadget agrees, face still flushed from laughter, “But would you want to be off the leash again?”

Max imagines Dog before he found them, wandering the wasteland, thirsty, ribs jutting out against his sides.

Daku considers the question only for a moment and shakes his head.

 

* * *

 

He makes peace with Gadget and returns to the hut, but still sleep proves elusive so once the other alpha is blissfully snoring into the night, Daku slips out of the hut again and uses his memory to cut through the darkness. He knows it’s ten hands from Gadget’s to Max’s, and then another twenty hands to their hut. Daku is so busy counting in his head that he nearly runs into Arthur. “Oh,” the omega declares, just as surprised to see him. “Coming to say goodnight to Conch?” he teases. Daku can see him smiling in the darkness.

It’s annoying to feel this constant weakness—a pull that urges him back to Conch—and yet he understands the rewards will be so enormous that they will overwhelm him temporary embarrassment. “Yes,” he admits, figuring it’s pointless to deny the charge.

Arthur almost looks sympathetic. “Well, hurry up before he falls asleep, and don’t let The Dag hear you or she’ll chase you off.”

With that, he disappears into the shadows, but it does not escape Daku’s attention that he is heading in the direction of the hut he shares with Max. Apparently, Daku is not the only one who feels the biological pull. 

He senses more than sees the hut, tentatively reaching out, the muscles of his shoulders relaxing when he feels the familiar leather hide. _Home_. Daku crouches and whispers towards where he knows there will be a small gap in the coverings. “Conch…” He waits and repeats the name, barely above a whisper, a moment later. Daku waits for the hide partitions to fly apart and the angry face of The Dag to fill his vision, but instead a few seconds pass and the flaps quiver before Conch sticks out his head and responds: “Daku?”

A smile stretches across his face, and he’s is so full of relief and happiness that other insecurities are forced from his skull—the embarrassment, fear, and anxiety floating away like dandelion seeds. “Yes, here,” he confirms, holding out a hand that Conch takes before slowly climbing from the hut, probably afraid of waking the babies and the other omegas.

“What are you doing here?” Conch asks, but Daku can tell he’s smiling, and the alpha steers them away from the hut, their arms looped, his far hand clasped over Conch’s fingers, keeping them pinned to his side as he walks around the water, towards the youth’s piano.

“I wanted to see you,” Daku confesses and they fall into comfortable silence, the only sound Daku’s boots crunching the earth. As usual, Conch is barefoot because he prefers to feel the soil and sand beneath his toes ( _You would too_ , he’s told Daku on more than one occasion _, if you spent your life locked up inside a stone prison_ ). 

The piano is shut, cover lowered to prevent sand from accumulating inside the case and burying strings, and the fall is also flipped shut to protect the keys. Though Conch had no intention of playing it anyway, he instinctively reaches out to run his fingertips across the lacquer, and Daku smiles affectionately as he watches. “You missed me?” Conch asks, sweet even as he shamelessly fishes for a compliment. 

Daku answers by grabbing the omega around his waist and heaving him upwards onto the shut piano so he’s seated and facing him. The youth squeaks and dissolves into giggling, and Daku grins like mad at the noise. “An understatement.” He isn’t sure how to explain what he felt when they were apart. Gadget’s voice became an even more annoying drone, air particles felt like rough sand grinding against his skin. It hurt to breathe.

“Me too,” Conch whispers, hands resting lightly atop Daku’s shoulders, not stopping him when the alpha pushes the linens higher along his thighs. 

“How do you feel?” Daku asks, voice pitched low. He gently covers the swell of his stomach. If Conch says he’s ill, he’ll stop this right now and escort him back to the hut. Even if it means he has to listen to Gadget alternate between snoring and blathering all night.

Conch rests his hands atop the alpha’s, guiding his calloused hands over the swell before dipping down to press their mouths together—not in a kiss—but so Daku can share his breath and feel the whisper as it leaves him: “I feel good.”

Daku seizes his hips and yanks him forwards, and Conch falls backwards with a surprised yelp, followed by delighted laughter as the alpha wrestles the linens off him. Conch is beautiful nude, stomach swollen with their child, modest chest supple with new milk. When Daku dips down to smell between his thighs, he discovers the omega is also wet and glistening, and he licks the pink bud. Conch gasps, legs wrapping the alpha’s shoulders, fingers clutching at his hair. 

They should be quiet or they’ll wake the whole village, but Daku feels wild: too hot, the clothes and gear suddenly leaden weights that he can’t shed quickly enough. Ultimately, he only has the sense to unfasten his slacks and push them down enough so his cocks springs out. Conch glances down and sees him, unsheathed and swollen, and scrambles to the edge, yanking at Daku so he’ll stand up and the omega can align them. It’s only been days, but feels like years, and when Conch wraps his legs around the alpha’s waist and whimpers, “Please,” Daku fully understands his agony and thrusts deep without preamble.

Back arched, Conch’s mouth opens in a soundless cry, neck curved in a vascular arch, gasping and grunting softly as Daku thrusts. The rational part of his brain instructs not too be too rough—not to jostle the omega too aggressively lest he hurt the baby, but Conch seems fine, better than fine— _demanding._ The omega grabs at his jacket, his shoulders, pulling and _yanking_ , demanding Daku fuck him harder until he bounces across the piano’s black back and the sound of wet plunder fills the space between them. Conch’s hand is a pale fist clenched between his thighs, roughly tugging at the length, stroking only a few times before he shoots across his smooth stomach.

Daku swears and his mate doesn’t chastise him because he’s too busy trembling and soaking the alpha’s slacks. When the omega goes limp, Daku gathers him in his arms and heaves Conch upwards until the youth clings to his shoulders and he can bury his face against the soft breasts, breathing in their scent and sucking on the buds as they rut. Conch squirms against him, finding the correct angle, and biting the leather of the jacket as Daku presses inside. “Ah…ah…” he quietly encourages, shaking in the alpha’s arms, the sound broken and lovely. Daku dips down to find the source, his pink mouth, and they hungrily embrace until his knees give out and they tumble to the ground.

He knots Conch on the ground, a rubbish choice because they’ll be covered in dirt and sand, but neither of them complain. Afterwards, they can strip and bathe in the water. Conch straddles his waist, collapsed atop Daku, his cheek pressed to the alpha’s chest. The swell is not yet big enough to make this position impossible or uncomfortable for the omega. As usual, he accommodates the knot beautifully, barely raising any objection aside from a single trembling exhale that Daku responds to by inhaling a thick gulp of air. His fingertips trace Conch’s naked spine, counting the ridges and settling at the dip above his rear. Daku buries his face in the youth’s thick locks, greedily breathing in their scent and rubbing the soft strands against his cheek. The omega shifts, kissing his chest, and Daku wishes they were alone in their hut where he’d be naked and could feel those lips on his skin.

“The Dag wants to marry us tomorrow,” Conch whispers, shifting slightly, inner muscles giving him a brutal and lovely squeeze.

“Tomorrow,” he purrs in agreement, dipping down to steal another kiss.

 

* * *

 

Conch sneaks back in just before dawn, gradually easing into the hut, wincing at every creak and shuffle he makes, fearful he’ll wake his sisters and they’ll unleash a battalion of questions. He settles back onto the bedding in the middle of their cluster, believing he’s successfully fooled them, when he notices Larrikin is awake and looking at him. His brows are tilted upwards in an amused teepee. Conch smiles shyly and offers a little wave—no more than a flurry of fingertips—as Larrikin smirks and mouths _go to sleep_.

“You reek of alpha,” The Dag grumbles when they’re all awake. “It’s bad luck to rut before the wedding.”

She roughly rakes the comb through his hair and he winces. “We already rutted,” he objects. After all, it’s Daku’s baby in his belly.

His sister smacks his temple with the flat side of the comb, making Conch yelp. “I mean _right before_ the wedding, fool.”

“Easy,” Capable scolds, kneeling in front of Conch to dab something across his cheekbones. He doesn’t know what the stuff is, but Capable wears it and her skin always shimmers. “No harm done,” she says soothingly, winking at him. “You’re going to be a real beauty. Just like Splendid.”

Cheedo crosses herself, places a kiss to a thumb knuckle, and tosses it to Walhalla—to their departed sister. Conch is quiet for a moment, allowing his sisters to fuss over the grooming procedures. The attention is nice and instills everything with gravitas, but while he’s glad the whole family is here, his stomach continues to anxiously churn. Toast is crouched in the corner, rummaging through a bag she brought from the Citadel, and utters a soft “Ah-ha” when she finds what she’s been searching for, pulling out a long sheet of prismatic fabric unlike anything Conch has seen before. He gasps upon seeing it and Toast smiles brightly. “Some War Boys were fighting over it because they think it’s blessed. Furiosa took it and said I could bring it for you to wear.”

She drapes it across his lap and he cautiously touches the fabric, running the silk between fingertips. It’s fine ware, like something Joe would have given to Splendid, his favorite. “And I brought this,” Capable announces, presenting from the bag a sparkly chain of jewels that catch the light pouring in from outside the hut. Before Conch can ask what it is, she drapes it across his skull, the center stone settling in a cool droplet between his eyebrows. It’s a crown. Like something a prince would wear.

Conch feels shy and a little embarrassed. “It’s too much,” he weakly objects.

“Not for our Conch,” Cheedo insists, flashing an encouraging smile.

Larrikin and The Dag wrap the linens around him in an asymmetrical tunic, “To show off your clavicle and shoulders,” Larrikin explains, shooting a smirk his way, and Conch’s face burns because he knows his brother is alluding to the love bites Daku has been known to pepper across his neck and collarbone. It’s the alpha’s favorite part of his body to lavish with attention. “You look beautiful,” Larrikin sighs, stepping back along with his sister to observe their work.

The Dag hums in agreement. “Daku is lucky.”

Furiosa appears in the hut’s arch and Capable gasps. “You shouldn’t see him before!”

The Dag waves her away. “That’s Daku. _You_ can see him,” she says to Furiosa.

It’s a rare event indeed to see Furiosa beam with happiness. The last time Conch witnessed it was when she was reunited with the Vuvalini, back when there was still hope of finding the green place. But unlike before, this moment is not a mirage. Conch is really about to get married. And in the middle of the desert, of all places. The alpha cups his face, and the omegas are so surprised by the display of affection that none of them scold her for potentially ruining his preparation. 

“You’re a sweet child and you deserve this.” His mouth drops open, but can’t think of how to respond. He’s too amazed to even cry but Furiosa isn’t finished. “He is your mate, and he will be your husband, but you can call on me at any time. I cared for you before he did, understand?”

“I know that,” he whispers, urgently needing her to understand how grateful he is for everything she’s done.

Furiosa isn’t interested in sentimentality. There’s something more immediate going on, but Conch doesn’t understand. “No matter what, Conch. I will do anything for you.”

He’s grateful that the talking is over when they press their foreheads together because the tears fall freely now and he couldn’t speak if he tried.

The village gathers in the late afternoon for the wedding. Cheedo and Capable laid out a patchwork of sheets across the green space near the water, and Toast instructs everyone to take off their shoe ware before crossing the fabric so as to not stain it. The request, in particular, makes Gadget and Max grumble because they have the most articles to remove, especially Max, who also has to take off his leg brace, but a swift scowl from Larrikin silences his grumbling. The alphas and omegas sit together, his sisters cradling the babies, who are also in attendance and most curious about the ceremony. Gur is crying, but in between his great gulps and whines, looks around until spotting his mother at the front of the group, her back pointed to the water. Gadget bounces the baby gently, rubbing his back, “She’s there, she’s right there,” he coos, pointing and waving until The Dag waves back and Gur sniffles, temporarily placated.

Daku stands by The Dag, uncomfortable because he’s not used to being presented to a large group like this, and wishes he had something nicer to wear. He should have picked up something in Bartertown, but the priority had been finding Conch a ring. “You’re fidgeting,” The Dag notes and he stops rubbing the back of his neck and offers a tight-lipped smile. _Thanks ever-so-much, love_. Actually, his heart is currently trying to make the long journey from his chest, clawing in desperate strokes in a quest to travel north up his throat and out his mouth. Daku doesn’t know why he’s nervous. Conch is beautiful and lovely, and most amazingly of all, loves him just as much. They’re going to start a family.

Why is he nervous?

 _Because now you have everything to lose_.

“Fuck,” he mutters beneath his breath, just loud enough for The Dag to hear.

A deadly smirk curls her mouth. “The devil arrives while you sleep.”

He stares at her for a moment, rendered speechless because she’s read his mind. But no, that’s not possible. Is it?

Conch is the only one who can adequately play an instrument, so instead Toast sings a haunting melody, all the guests standing as Conch slowly walks from the hut, down the makeshift aisle, towards the water where The Dag and Daku wait. He’s smiling shyly, clearly as uncomfortable as Daku is by all the fuss, but also with a pleased undercurrent. After all, at its core, this ceremony is about their love, which is true, and will last forever. Of that, Daku has no doubt.

The setting sun casts light across the water, reflecting off Conch’s garb, fabric shining and rippling. He’s a vision, an angel, and Daku knows he’s staring, but dammit, he’s allowed. “Count your blessings, old man!” Gadget calls from the crowd and present company titters in recognition. Gadget has a smart mouth, but he’s perceptive.

“I’m counting them,” Daku mumbles when Conch is standing in front of him and the youth smiles, tears welling up in his eyes. 

He takes the omega’s hands between his own, sandwiching the cold, quivering fingers. “I’m so nervous,” Conch whispers. “All these eyes.”

“Just look at me,” Daku smirks, hoping to exude more confidence than he feels.

Perhaps most surprising is that The Dag is not only prepared with a series of prayers, but she’s a commanding presence, her beseeching of the stars and Walhalla moving in a way that amazes Daku and has Conch weeping happy tears in no time. She implores Walhalla to guard them, their children, and all their days together, and Gadget shouts, “Here, here!” to which all present murmur their agreement. 

“Conch, do you take this alpha for all your days, to love and guard against the devil and all his minions, as long as you breathe?”

Conch hesitates and looks to The Dag before realizing she’s looking for a verbal response. “Oh! Yes, of course.”

The village chuckles appreciatively and Daku smiles, lifting the omega’s hands to kiss his knuckles. Blushing, Conch grins as The Dag repeats the question for the benefit of the alpha and he answers at once: “I swear it.”

“Then by the power invested in me by Walhalla, the guardian Splendid, and the Many Mothers, I declare you wed!” The Dag cries and the whole village leaps to their feet, cheering as Daku grabs Conch tight and kisses his laughing mouth. Hard little pellets rain down on their heads, and when he looks at the grass, grains of rice are scattered everywhere. He quirks an inquisitive brow and The Dag shrugs, a small pouch clutched in her hand. “The ones who killed the world had strange traditions.”

But Daku isn’t interested in conversation right now. He grabs Conch and lifts him off the ground, burying his face against the curve of the omega’s throat, where the tunic dips appealingly low. Conch laughs and clings to him, smiling without the tears this time, radiant and glorious. 

Max awkwardly shakes Daku’s hand after the ceremony. “Congratulations,” he murmurs, relieved to allow his mate to take the conversation’s helm. 

“We’ll watch Rabi tonight,” Arthur offers, “Our honeymoon gift to you.”

 _A honeymoon._ Because they’re married. Conch is his omega—not just in the biological sense, but in a deeper way that involves every part of them.

Conch clings to his side, their hands locked together, and Daku doesn’t mind the ache in his fingers. He never wants to let go.

 

* * *

 

Max is nervous because the wedding is over now and yet Furiosa doesn’t seem in a rush to get back to the Citadel. He knows for a fact that the omegas aren’t packed, nor planning to depart that evening, because they’ve been walking around the village, socializing, and helping The Dag with the crops. Normally, he wouldn’t mind the omegas staying an extra day or two, but he badly desires for things to go back to normal. He misses privacy, being alone with Arthur and Tallara, when there wasn’t a horde of omegas darting in and out of their hut, touching things. 

He’s been required to share space with other alphas but that’s different. Omegas are much more social and lack the same boundaries that alphas possess. The other day, Cheedo handed him a flower she plucked from The Dag’s garden and Max very nearly ran away. _A flower_. What could that mean? Arthur laughed at him afterwards, explaining Cheedo was thanking him for being a good host, but he’s still shaken up over it.

Max is used to people shooting at his head, but gifts? Strange business.

Furiosa appears outside their hut at nightfall, wearing something like a consolatory expression, which only reenforces Max’s fears. They’re not going to leave tonight. The alpha permits Arthur to stay as she speaks to Max. “I’m leaving tonight,” she announces, surprising Max. He tries not to show his relief, but there’s more, “The omegas are staying.”

Max stares at her, sure he’s misunderstood. He looks to Arthur for confirmation, but the anxious look on his mate’s face confirms he heard right. “But Cheedo is your mate…” he begins helplessly, baffled by the decision. He understands Furiosa has some progressive views on alpha-omega relationships, but this is beyond absurd, even for her. To willingly leave one’s mate unattended violates every basic tenet of alphahood. 

“And Conch will need her, along with the other sisters. There’s something wrong with the baby,” she glances to Arthur, “The Dag senses it and so do I.”

The world shifts, ground dropping away, but Max somehow reminds upright. “You have the sight.” It’s not a question. Why didn’t he suspect it before? Furiosa allowed him to live when they first met because she sensed something in him. Stupidly, he thought it was intuition. She gazes down at him, silent, but there’s recognition in her gaze. Max wants to surge forth, grab, and shake her because all this time he thought he was alone. “So do I,” he mutters, still afraid to say the words aloud.

“I know,” Furiosa calmly responds. “People who survive what we’ve been through always have the sight.”

Max takes a moment to process the news and then asks: “What’s wrong with the baby?”

“We’re not sure,” Arthur softly interjects. “But whatever it is, we’ll need all the help we can get, and the Citadel omegas are more familiar with medical procedures than me and The Dag.”

He nods, absorbing the information. It’s not even a choice. Conch needs the omegas here, so they’ll stay. Max understands this is an enormous sacrifice by Furiosa—to allow all the omegas to stay at the village, including her beloved, in order to maintain their prosperity. 

“I’ll take care of him.” It’s a bold declaration, one he’s not really sure he can uphold. Max isn’t a doctor or nurse and his medical knowledge is limited to the times he crookedly stitched his own injuries. He couldn’t even set his leg properly, which is why he walks with a limp when not wearing the brace. But if there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s his willingness to die to protect his tribe.

Furiosa smiles slightly, her eyes shining with deep, sad recognition. “Thank you, my friend.”


	6. Certainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conch has the baby

Max knows something is wrong when he wakes to soaked sheets. He rolls onto his side and props up on an elbow to look at Arthur, who he can barely see in the pitch black of the hut. Maybe the omega is in heat, but when Max touches his brow, the sweat is cold and the muscles of his brow are furrowed in a distressed grimace. A nightmare. He dips his head close to Arthur’s mouth, trying to discern what he’s whispering, but can only make out one word repeated emphatically: _No_. 

When he cups Arthur’s face, the omega flinches and strikes his chest, the whisper now a shout. “Shhh,” Max soothes, afraid Arthur will wake the whole village. His attempts at placation only make things worse. Arthur thrashes, kicking at the bedding, yelling (and most horrifyingly) _sobbing_ as Max tries to pin down his limbs before he seriously injures himself or the baby. All the commotion wakes Tallara, who joins the chorus of noise as she fearfully whimpers and cries, sensing something is amiss.

“Need help?” a sleepy voice inquires from just outside the hut. _Gadget_. Arthur has woken the others. The implication running like an icy undercurrent beneath those words: _Since you are incapable of caring for your omega_. 

“No,” Max growls, too annoyed to feel any gratitude that the other alpha tried to check up on them. “ _Arthur_ ,” he whispers insistently, giving the omega a gentle shake by the shoulders. Still, he doesn’t wake, but Max is hesitant to treat him roughly. His mate is now swollen with child, and all this sudden movement is spooking Max, who warily watches the baby bump like it’s a bomb about to detonate. He leans down and presses his lips to the shell of Arthur’s ear. “Come now, my beauty, open your eyes.”

“Max…” His nose grazes the omega’s wet cheek and Arthur’s eyes are open now, glassy, shimmering with tears, haunted by whatever was hunting him. “Oh…” he groans, perhaps realizing what’s happened, embarrassed that the nightmares are still so vivid. His eyes clench shut again, and afraid the omega will slip away again to where he can’t follow, Max grasps his face and shushes him, hoping to convey the very idea that Arthur would feel shame is absurd. Tallara is crying and finally the sound registers with him. “Can you…? I can’t…”

He grunts in acquiescence and rolls to his feet. Tallara is a squirming bundle at the opposite end of the hut, and Max frowns when he’s close enough to see her red, wet face. “Shhh, I’m here,” he soothes, gathering her into his arms, feeling absolutely helpless that he can’t manage to soothe her or her father. He drapes the baby over his shoulder and gently rubs her back, which has been known to comfort her even during the worst fits. She’s worked herself into such a frenzy that hiccups pepper the wails and Max chuckles, despite himself. “Look what you’ve done,” he murmurs, “Worked yerself into a tizzy.” 

Tallara likes the sound of his voice for some reason. _She thinks you’re magic_ , Arthur always says. So Max talks softly, even though he doesn’t really know what to say. He calls her beautiful, tells her it’ll be all right. Eventually, Tallara’s cries diminish to soft whimpering, and then silence. Max moves slowly, daring to peek at the girl’s face, and sees her eyes are shut. She’s cried herself to sleep again. He gently places her onto the bedding again and returns to Arthur, who is now sitting up in bed, no small task given the swollen shape of his belly.

“Why don’t the others have nightmares?” he whispers, referring to his omega kin.

Max slides in next to him and wraps an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “What makes you think they don’t?” Arthur rolls his eyes and Max smirks. _Right_. They may have nightmares, but not the screaming fits Arthur gets sometimes—less these days, but still a traumatizing experience, each and every one of them. “Everyone has demons.” They just manifest in different ways. Arthur, The Dag, and Conch all deal with the aftermath of the Immortan in their own ways. He’s sure the same is true about Capable and Toast, but he’s never heard a nighttime peep from their new hut that he and the other alphas built for them soon after Furiosa announced they’d be staying for the long haul. (Cheedo has been staying with The Dag and a still-befuddled Gadget).

His fingertips trace the slope of Arthur’s cheekbone and Max leans close to breathe in the scent hovering like a dense fog just above the curve of his neck. He wants to ask Arthur about the nightmares, but his mate is very much like him in some ways, including the desire to keep some scars secret. Still, he can’t stop from asking: “What did you dream?”

Arthur shakes his head and pulls him close instead, pressing their lips together. This is what usually happens. Max asks about the nightmares, but Arthur ignores him, left raw in their aftermath, hungry for the blissful connection that drives all coherent thoughts from his mind. He’s close to the end of his pregnancy, the period when Max is afraid to rut him too roughly lest he jostle the baby, but Arthur is demanding, hand rough and hot as he tugs at Max’s length until he’s rigid. He pants during the ministrations, dipping low to bury his face between Arthur’s heavy breasts where the scent is rich, but he has to wait to steal a taste when Arthur is wet and writhing, or the omega will box his ear for taking the baby’s milk (even though Max would never drink more than a small taste).

The omega props up on all fours, Max grabbing his cheeks and massaging before spreading them open and burying his face. Arthur groans as though relieved, braced on one arm while the other hand strokes his stomach. Max wonders if the baby is kicking. “Come on,” Arthur goads, reaching back to grope at the alpha’s shoulder. “Max, come on,” he pleads.

He presses against Arthur’s wet entrance and thrusts, tight muscles squeezing the air from his lungs as the omega sighs: _Yes_. Max knows the nightmares are about Immortan, the hundreds of days Arthur was a prisoner and raped, and he wonders if the pleasure is a way to force the dark thoughts from his head. Maybe a small part of Arthur hates that he still loves sex with an alpha after being hurt by one for so long. Max isn’t sure and he doesn’t know how to ask.

 _You’re not bad_ _for wanting this_ , he helplessly thinks while thrusting, Arthur’s body a hot, writhing miracle, simultaneously providing him with intense pleasure and incubating their child. A wonderful tremor travels through Arthur’s spine, the muscles clenching him in response, and Max knows the omega is crying, overcome by the deluge of emotions. “Max…” The broken moan drives him over the edge, and afterwards, when they’re laying together and his fingertips slowly trace the arc of Arthur’s stomach, Max feels disquiet because he longs to tell Arthur exactly what rests inside his heart, but as usual, can’t find the words.

He thinks for a long time, willing his tongue to move, afraid Arthur will fall asleep before he can speak.

“I love you…as you are,” he finally forces out, hating the words as soon as they leave his mouth, deeming them utterly inadequate.

Arthur doesn’t need to hide his scars because Max loves him, not despite of them, but because of them. _You’re stronger than me, beauty_. Arthur may be the strongest person he’s ever met.

His dark head turns, a cheeky gleam in his eyes as he considers Max. “So you _are_ crazy then,” he teases, but there’s a wound that flickers across his face.

Max cups his face, unwilling to allow Arthur to slip away again to the secret place where he hides when the hurt is too great. “Arthur…” he insists.

The omega considers him for a while, gaze thoughtful, more than a little tender. “I love you too,” he whispers.

 

* * *

 

It’s another bad day. Conch can barely move, curled up on his side, eyes clenched shut as Daku strokes his brow and coaches him to breathe. The cramps have gotten worse and The Dag visits regularly to press an ear to Conch’s stomach and frown, but never bloody _says_ anything that would soothe Daku’s nerves. The omega then retreats to quietly consults with her sisters, who also stare at Conch with fear in their eyes. Daku, naturally, demands answers but they say they’re not sure what’s wrong. 

They’re lying, he’s sure of it.

“Hurts..” becomes Conch’s mantra and Daku makes all the appropriate sounds of sympathy, and spends most days laying with his mate, gently stroking his stomach as though that will ease the pain. These days, Conch barely has enough energy to eat and the alpha is worried he’s growing too thin.

The next time The Dag visits, Daku follows her as she leaves the hut and corners her before she can retreat back to her own quarters. “Tell me what’s wrong. Right now,” and before she can recycle the claim that she’s not quite sure, he adds: “Your suspicions. What you think it may be.”

Eyes the color of their lake appraise him, perhaps trying to decide if he’s strong enough to withstand the news. A lifetime of living on the road has gifted him the ability to appear perfectly stoic even as his heart thunders inside his chest. “I’m not sure…” she repeats, but also adds: “The heartbeat sounds strange, and the cramps…I think the baby may be turned.”

Daku’s mouth goes dry. A breached birth then. Almost certainly a death sentence for Conch. “Fix it.” He doesn’t mean the words to sound so gruff, but icy panic makes him curt.

The Dag’s face softens into an expression Daku has never seen before. It may be sympathy. “Dunno how, but Toast does. We’ve been waiting until we were sure. There’s a way to turn the baby, but…it hurts, and doesn’t always work.”

“Do it,” he says at once, annoyed that it’s taken her this long to present the possibility.

“Conch could go into shock, or his water could break and he’ll go into labor early.”

His mate isn’t due for another thirty days, according to Toast’s calendar. Daku shifts his weight, tongue lapping across dry lips as he thinks. “What’s the alternative?”

The Dag stares at him for a long moment. “We wait and try to deliver the baby feet-first.”

“No, absolutely not.” He dismisses the option outright. Daku has seen breached births before. The baby always dies, usually the omega too.

“It’s not up to you,” she sneers, just like that returning to the hostile flaxen-haired demon he first met. “Not your body, is it? It’s up to Conch.”

But she’s right. It isn’t his choice.

 

* * *

 

He stands just behind Toast and The Dag when they deliver the news. Conch doesn’t look surprised, but the knowledge something is wrong doesn’t ease his worry. The Dag presents his options: wait to deliver the baby, but this will almost certainly end badly, or they can try and turn the baby, but may inadvertently spur labor. Either option is dangerous for Conch and the baby, but he doesn’t hesitate long to make his decision: “Try to turn the baby.” He casts a wary glance to Daku, who nods supportively. That’s what he was hoping the omega would say.

“Can we have a moment?” Daku asks.

The omegas leave and Daku kneels beside the bedding, Conch’s cold, slender fingers clasped between his hands, the cool band of the ring pressing into a calloused palm. Rabi has been living with the Dag and Gadget for days because Conch is too weak to care for him. The omega looks exhausted: deep bruising beneath the eyes, pale, gaze fatigued and frightened. “Toast tried this at the Citadel when I lived there. The omegas died.”

Daku pushes the dark curls from his brow. “Well, they weren’t you, hm?” His voice is steady, instilled with confidence he doesn’t feel. Childbirth is one of the most dangerous acts in the desert. It is not at all uncommon for omegas to die during labor. At the Citadel, there was a pit, a graveyard, where they buried the omegas who died. It was big and growing by the time Daku packed and left for the village.

The corner of Conch’s lips curl in a weary smile. He wants to believe Daku’s words, but knows the odds are stacked against them. Though what choice do they have? Waiting for delivery is far too risky. The youth is quiet for a long time, and Daku thinks maybe he should ask if Conch wants him to call his sisters back in. Suddenly, he speaks again: “If…anything happens…” A tear slides down his cheek and Daku quickly wipes it away, “Take care of the babies and I want you to find another mate.”

“Stop it,” Daku growls, rougher than he means to, but he doesn’t want to talk about this. They just got married. Conch is wearing his ring. He refuses to think about the possibility of a world without his family. “I will personally follow you to the gates of Walhalla and drag you back with me, understand?” 

Daku means to lighten the mood and certainly doesn’t intend to make Conch cry, but tears nevertheless slide down the omega’s cheek as he smiles and nods. Too overcome to speak, Conch bows his head when Daku tilts it and presses a kiss to his brow, and the bridge of his nose, along with each wet cheek, and finally his mouth. They’re still hanging on to one another when The Dag walks back into the hut and announces: “If we’re doing this, it should be now.” After noticing Conch clutching his hand, she adds: “Daku has to leave.”

Alphas go mad when they see blood, especially the blood of their mate. Daku could kill everyone if his alpha brain believes The Dag or Toast are hurting him. His heart clenches painfully when Conch makes a soft, distressed noise. “I’ll be right outside,” he promises. 

Their brows are pressed together when Conch says he wants Larrikin with him and Toast fetches their brother a moment later. Arthur looks grave, but determined, and Daku momentarily feels slightly better. Arthur single-handedly saved the alphas from the Rock Rider Chief and Toast is an experienced midwife. All dire circumstances considered, this is the best shot they have at Conch and the baby making it out of this alive. Daku spends another moment kissing Conch, uncaring that the omegas are waiting for him to leave. He presses another kiss to the ring hugging Conch’s slender finger. “You’ll play a song for me. After this.” It’s mad, but he thinks if he makes Conch swear to future plans, one of their piano dates, it will remove the possibility of death. 

“Yes…” Conch agrees, flashing a brave, though tightlipped, smile. 

Daku lingers a moment longer, watching the omegas set up: Arthur sitting behind Conch, his mate sprawled between the omega’s legs and resting against his curved belly, The Dag speaking quietly to Toast as she touches Conch’s exposed belly, explaining her theory about how their child is positioned, how they’ll need to rotate him. Cheedo slowly enters the hut, carrying a large basin of water, several rags draped over her shoulder. She tosses a sympathetic look his way.

Capable arranges some linens under Conch’s hips and looks back at Daku. “You have to go now.”

“And don’t come back until we say so,” Arthur adds, “No matter what you hear.”

The implication being that Conch will scream when they roll the baby, due to sheer agony, and Daku can’t run to his side. The knowledge almost makes him call off the whole thing, but his mate flashes an encouraging smile. “Go on. You’ll see us in a bit.”

He nods, takes one last look at Conch, and slips out of the hut. Max and Gadget are waiting just outside, having clearly been charged with keeping him from the hut. He grunts in annoyance. “I’m not going to do anything mad,” he spits, stalking past the men and settling by the fire pit where they’ve arrange some halved logs as seats. 

“Ay, we know, brother,” Gadget remarks lightly, settling nearby, “Thought we’d keep you company.”

Max is quiet, which is how Daku knows Gadget is lying. Unlike their chatty companion, Max is not gifted with gab and has a difficult time spinning yarns. They’re here so he doesn’t charge into the hut at Conch’s first cry. “Fuck,” he mutters, hands collapsed before him in a prayer-like gesture, except he’s not praying. Daku wouldn’t even know who to pray to. 

“Won’t be long,” Gadget remarks with a cheerful smile.

Max is silent, meaning he doesn’t agree, and Daku knows the former roar warrior has a bit of a sixth sense for these types of things.

They’re in for a long wait.

 

* * *

 

What doesn’t take long is Conch screaming. That happens right away. The Dag rolls the baby and Conch yells in agony, and keeps yelling, for what feels like forever. Daku knew it would feel awful not to be able to run to his pained mate, but what he is not prepared for is the way his body automatically jumps to attention and sprints for the hut before his brain has a chance to catch up. Gadget barely catches him, charging across the sand and tackling him from behind before he can get inside. “Get off me!” he shouts, punching Gadget in the jaw, which barely fazes the alpha.

“Easy, brother. Easy,” Gadget soothes, rolling him, and straddling his back so Daku ends up face-down and kicking, like a child throwing a tantrum. “It’s okay,” Gadget adds to someone, and when Daku looks up, Max is standing over him, face politely blank.

He wants to shout and spit at the other alpha. _How can you be so calm? Don’t you care for him too?_ Daku growls and gives another half-hearted thrash that barely moves Gadget. Max crouches beside him and sighs. In an unnerving moment of clarity, he realizes the look on Max’s face is intense empathy. _I’m crazy, just like you_. Maybe omegas are a gift and a curse: merchants of pleasure and nurturing, but their presences consume alphas and drive them mad too.

“You can’t do anything,” Max tells him and when he opens his mouth to object, cuts him off: “You can’t.”

Conch’s cries suddenly stop with a hoarse, broken yelp and Capable’s red head pokes outside: “His water broke. Get comfortable. This is going to take a while.”

 

* * *

 

When the sun is low in the sky, Daku realizes they’ll be sleeping outside tonight. The omegas take shifts, occasionally emerging from the hut to stretch their legs and to provide updates about what’s happening. The only omega he has not heard from yet is Arthur, who has remained by Conch’s side for over twelve hours, no small task considering he’s swollen with child and probably (to put it mildly) uncomfortable. Max must be worried sick about his mate putting this amount of stress on himself and yet he hasn’t raised any objections. Daku would thank him were he not stupidly, irrationally angry with the other alphas for babysitting him.

Toast appears at twilight, face gaunt and brow speckled with perspiration. The alphas are seated, so for once she towers over them while delivering the message: “The Dag turned the baby and the water broke, but the contractions have just started so it’ll be a while before…” She trails off, not bothering to lie and say _the baby gets here_ because, for all they know, it will be a still birth or Conch will slip away during labor.

“How is he?” Daku asks.

Toast attempts to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. “He’s good. Tough.”

 _You’re all rubbish liars_ , he wants to say but keeps his trap shut. He feels miserable, too distraught to even touch the grilled rat meat Gadget hands him after building the fire and catching the vermin in the midst of munching away on The Dag’s crops. The others eat in silence after several aborted efforts by Gadget to start a conversation. Even he stops trying when Conch’s moans fill the air. The contractions have unleashed in full force now, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the baby will be here soon.

“Want to pray?” Gadget offers.

“No,” Daku growls, mysteriously angered by the offer. He feels sorry for his response when the alpha winces. “But if you want to…go ahead,” he offers. What could the harm be? Better to cover all eventualities. He doesn’t want to arrive to the gates of Walhalla and have the keeper ask him: _Why didn’t you pray for your mate?_

Gadget sets aside the rat’s spine and kisses his thumb, offering the sign of deference to the sky before he sets about whispering into folded hands, in what Daku notices is an exact mimicry of how The Dag prays.

He can’t help but notice Max doesn’t join him. Instead, the alpha stares into the flames, occasionally glancing up to meet his gaze across the way.

 

* * *

 

No one sleeps. For hours, they remain seated in the sullen semi-circle until the flames diminish and extinguish on their own. At sun up, Conch’s cries reach a fevered peak and Daku leaps to his feet again. “I have to, Max,” he insists when the alpha blocks his way. “Just a moment. I won’t stay,” he barters, as though he could make such an assurance. Gadget arrives at his side, face a mask of fatigue, as if asking: _Are we really going to do this again?_ No way will the alphas let him pass. Their own mates are inside the hut and could be the victims of Daku’s unpredictable rage. He sighs, head bowed in defeat before handing Max the knife strapped to his thigh and a pistol holstered at the hip. “You’d better hang on to these.”

Right now, he doesn’t know himself.

He sits on the log and covers his ears, desperate to block out the sound of Conch crying in pain. Somehow, the noise bleeds through the insistent barrier of his palms: hands that have squeezed the life from men, built weapons from scratch, and braced him against brutal travel for hundreds of days cannot shield him from the pain of his beloved. “I’ll pray,” he finally says, looking to an extremely surprised Gadget. Even Max’s brows ascend at the declaration, but Daku doesn’t care. He’s willing to try anything to distract himself. “How do I do it?”

“No trick to it, brother. I’ll lead and you listen, contribute if you like, silently or otherwise. Ready?” Gadget extends his dirt-covered hands, white palms-up. Daku nods and watches him close his eyes and begin: “Blessed Walhalla, keep us and protect us from the forces of darkness. Provide us with bountiful crops, unending water, and please shield little Conch from harm. The baby too, divine Walhalla. Let it be a healthy baby: a good, strong contribution to our beloved village.”

Daku is not prepared for how the words move him. He swiftly closes his eyes as they begin to burn, briefly horrified by the idea of crying in front of the alphas. He’s just so afraid. Conch sounds like he’s in agony, and though Toast is right (his mate is tough), toughness doesn’t matter in this world. Hard people die every day. Daku has known many of them. He thinks of his parents—of the Bullet Farmer, the toughest old bastard he’s ever known.

Too much is left to chance and luck. It can drive a person mad if one thinks about it too deeply. Better to believe there is something larger at work, someone who sees Conch and cares for him even though he is one of many in the desert.

The log shifts and when he opens his eyes Max is seated beside him, silent, not participating in the prayers but still with him in quiet solidarity. They’ve never shared a heart-to-heart, but he’s managed to piece together bits of Max’s story from what the omegas share with each other, and what’s he’s gathered is that Max has lived a sad life, one full of loss. There is a hard-earned wisdom about the man that unnerves Daku a bit. Max sometimes looks at him and Conch with dejected recognition, as if registering how happy they are, and preemptively mourning for what will come.

“The thing about time…” Max begins, surprising them both so much that Gadget stops praying and listens to him, “…is that it keeps moving forward. Doesn’t matter what we do. We burned it all to the ground and it keeps moving forward.” Daku isn’t sure what to say, or why Max is saying this to him. For a moment, the alpha almost looks amused, as if he’s in on a joke that Gadget and he are incapable of understanding. “The joy leaves but so does the sadness. No matter how much it hurts, it passes.”

Max is quiet for a while and Daku knows he’s done talking, so he nods slowly. That’s true. The hurt will only last so long, but what will follow it? More pain, probably. But maybe joy. Maybe he’ll soon hear the cries of his son or daughter. Tentatively, he grips Max’s shoulder and pats it gently. “Thank you, mate.” Strange words, but he knows Max is trying to help. 

It’s not his fault he’s crazy.

 

* * *

 

Arthur’s legs are asleep and his back aches, but every time Conch is coherent enough to ask him if he needs to move, he rejects the offer. The other omega is unleashing dense fear pheromones, and Arthur knows if he walks out of the hut, he will carry the scent with him and Daku will lose his mind. Besides, he doesn’t want to leave his brother. The contractions are coming more regularly now, Conch’s body twisting into painful coils as his jaw locks and he moans, a terrible, animalistic noise that makes Arthur’s throat clench.

Their fingers are laced, resting on the mountain of Conch’s stomach, and during a brief reprieve, the younger omega offers: “Let me move. I’m crushing you.” And it’s true: there is quite a bit of pressure on the shell of Arthur’s hard stomach, but it’s not a serious threat. And this way, Conch can squeeze his hands when he needs to. 

“You barely weigh a thing,” Arthur teases, “Even with child.” That makes Conch laugh, but the smile quickly gives way to another grimace. “Give me the rag,” he tells Cheedo, who dips a small linen in the water basin and hands it to Arthur. Once the contraction passes, he places the cool rag to Conch’s lips so he can drink. This has been his only form of sustenance for almost a day-and-a-half. 

Their sister watches with a fearful gaze. Arthur has had to send her away twice now because her anxiety is making Conch even more nervous. He shoots a warning glare and Cheedo clears her throat, “I’ll fetch The Dag.” With that, she departs.

When they’re alone, Conch cranes his neck back so their gazes meet. “If anything happens to me, help Daku with the baby. Make sure…” Another wince, “He finds someone and is happy.” 

“Hush,” Arthur whispers, pressing his lips to Conch’s burning brow. He refuses to even humor this, nor can he imagine Daku ever wanting another mate. 

“Please,” Conch begs.

He’s afraid of the youth having one of his anxious fits on top of the labor pain, so finally says: “Yes, of course. I’ll always take care of Rabi.”

Conch’s spine melts into him and he exhales. “Thank you,” he says, sounding enormously relieved. Then another contraction thunders and he cries.

 

* * *

 

The hut flaps open and out walks Cheedo. Not Arthur. Max mumbles, annoyed. “When does Arthur get a break?” He hasn’t seen his mate in a long time, and it can’t be good for the pregnant omega to be working such long hours. But like Daku, he cannot enter the hut lest he see blood and transform into a beast.

“They’re very close,” Gadget notes, stating the obvious. It hardly takes a genius to make such a diagnosis. All of Gadget’s limbs are crossed: arms and legs, folded in front of him, jutting way out so that his boots are almost resting in the fire pit. “Arthur’s always been very protective of him. The Dag told me about how he’d distract Joe…”

Gadget drops this casually, missing the fierce look Max snaps his way. This is the first time he’s hearing this story. What else has The Dag told him? “What you mean?” he grunts.

Daku is also looking at the alpha, clearly lost. At least he’s not the only mate who’s been kept in the dark.

“Oh, you know,” Gadget says, circling his hand through the air, as if reciting a story Max has heard many times before. He still doesn’t realize Max has never heard the tale, “Joe would come for Conch and sometimes Arthur would fight him, biting and spitting, so Joe took him instead…” He trails off after looking at Max, not seeing the horrified expression until it’s too late. “I thought you knew, brother—” Max stands up suddenly and storms off, towards his hut, “I’m sorry!” Gadget calls to his back.

 

* * *

 

He’s never been able to stand the sound of Conch crying. Arthur presses his cheek to the youth’s temple and sings even though he’s no troubadour. Really, Toast should be singing, but she’s taking a break right now. He happens to know the song is one of Conch’s favorite—about a little black sheep living among a white herd, who feels lost, until one day he finds other sheep with dark wool. It’s a song for children, but Conch heard the War Boys singing it one day when he was looking out the tower’s window, and the tune stuck in his head. He worked out how to play it on the piano, and when he was very sad or frightened, Arthur would sing it back to him.

The song briefly distracts Conch from the pain. “Really, go outside. I’ll be all right,” he insists, even though the contractions are coming regularly now and it won’t be long. 

“Nonsense, we just got cozy,” Arthur smirks. They’re both covered in sweat, linens gripping their bodies, though Conch is barely covered. There’s no point, now that the baby is on its way. “And I’m returning the favor. Remember? You saved Tallara.”

“You saved _me_ ,” Conch murmurs, brow furrowed in pain.

Arthur runs his hand over Conch’s stomach, as if he could locate the agonizing tremor and obliterate it with his fingertips. “You would have done the same for me.”

“Couldn’t…I couldn’t do anything…to stop him,” the youth deliriously moans. 

This is no time for dark thoughts, so Arthur makes a soothing noise with his mouth and strokes Conch’s thick locks. None of that matters right now. The past is the past, and truthfully Arthur would do it all over again if it meant protecting his brother. He wants to tell Conch what Max always says: they all have their own demons, but Arthur will deal with Conch’s whenever he can simply because he knows the other omegas would do the same for him.

Before he can open his mouth, Conch screams and when Arthur looks down, there is blood smearing the omega’s thighs. He shouts for help and three seconds later, The Dag and Toast charge inside.

 

* * *

 

Max permits himself to feel angry for a few moments. It’s not Arthur’s duty to share every painful second of his history with his mate, but learning about the terrible details from Gadget stings a bit. He calms down by touching things inside their hut: Arthur’s riding gear, the holster he bought him in Bartertown. He’d like to hold their daughter, but the omegas have placed all the babies inside The Dag’s hut as part of some ritual. Something about gathering all their energy within a blessed space. Max doesn’t pretend to understand it.

He ends up feeling bitter about that too. Max doesn’t even have a say in where his pregnant mate goes, or where his daughter is kept during the birthing.

He glances at the folded glasses on the table and feels embarrassed. Blind and deaf, kept in the dark about his mate’s past. A fine alpha he is. Arthur’s call tears him from his den of self-loathing. Max runs outside just as The Dag and Toast are charging past him and he takes off after them, unthinking, staggering to a halt just outside the birthing hut, which he is most certainly not permitted inside. Conch’s cries are different now, bordering on hysterical, meaning the baby is close to arriving.

When he glances back to the pit, Daku is standing, locked in a position of awkward limbo, fingertips twitching at his side where the pistol’s handle no longer resides. To ask an alpha _not_ to act goes against their basic nature. Max slowly returns to the men, sheepish because of his hasty exit before. Gadget looks at him with an expression similar to the time Dog defecated inside their hut and Max shouted to the rafters. “Brother…” the alpha begins and Max holds up his hand, too fatigued to care about the accidental disclosure.

The baby is coming, so nothing else matters now.

“This is killing me,” Daku murmurs and Max feels sorry for him. They were lucky when Max stayed with Arthur during the birthing. It was a stupid gamble on his part, one bet before they had the options of alpha guards. And yet he feels grateful that he hasn’t been in Daku’s position…yet. 

“Won’t be long now,” Gadget repeats, but this time Max thinks he maybe believes him. Something has shifted in the air. Perhaps he detects Conch’s pheromones wafting from the hut. Whatever it is, his tongue tastes like copper, snapping bits of iron from the air. _Blood_. Blood means the baby is almost here.

Daku slowly sits, eyes wide, face drawn. “Glory me…” he mumbles, dazed, and Max understands. Road warriors never imagine this sort of life for themselves: family, village obligations. He sympathetically pats the alpha on the back. A man Daku’s age imagines an inglorious demise: a shallow, anonymous grave, if one is lucky enough to be buried. More than likely, pecked apart by desert buzzards, hopefully before pirates dig out any gold fillings. A man Daku’s age doesn’t imagine a life with a lovely, young omega. Not unless he’s a fool.

 

* * *

 

Toast kneels between Conch’s spread thighs and excitedly smiles, “A head! I see the top of the head!” Arthur’s heart leaps in his chest. It’s a good sign, meaning Conch’s body remembers how to birth even though he had to endure the traumatic turning of the fetus. 

Conch throws back his head, eyes rolling in his skull as he babbles: “Can’t…I can’t, Larrikin.” He’s physically and mentally exhausted, probably weak from hunger too. “Cut it out…You have to cut it out,” he pleads.

“Too late for that,” The Dag notes, running a cool, wet linen across Conch’s brow.

Now all the omegas are gathered around the bedding. Toast washes her hands in the basin and peers between Conch’s thighs, telling him he has to push, to which Conch groans and shakes his head. He doesn’t speak, but Arthur hears his voice inside his head: _Can’t._

“Yes you can,” he whispers, squeezing Conch’s fingers until they turn white. “We did not escape that man to give up now, understand me? Push!”

The sisters join the chorus of encouragement, cheering whenever Conch sucks in another breath and pushes until rivulets of sweat run down his neck and chest. He’s feverish and delirious, clawing to hold onto consciousness, spurred on only by the sound of their voices. He asks for Daku, and Arthur tells him the alpha will be with him soon, when Conch finishes pushing and the baby is here. 

“Shoulders! I see the shoulders!” Toast cries, face glowing as she reaches beneath the swell of Conch’s belly.

Engines rumble outside and The Dag’s wide eyes lock with Arthur’s own horrified gaze. _The riders_. It must be time for a refill. He tries to remember the last time they visited and can’t. Arthur has been so preoccupied with his pregnancy and Conch’s that the contract has completely slipped his mind. “Go,” he tells The Dag, “Don’t let them come in here.”

The Dag nods and darts from the hut just as Conch sucks in a deep breath and pushes, yelling on the exhale—a quaking wail that is immediately joined by the baby’s cry. “Well done, Conch!” Toast laughs, slicing the cord with a knife and washing the squirming, pink creature with water from the basin. “A girl!” The other omegas coo, pleased with the news. “Not too small. No lumps. She’s perfect in every way.”

Conch collapses against him, soaked with perspiration and wetly blinking, but there’s a dazed smile stretched across his lips. “A girl,” he rasps, eyes slipping shut. He’s going to sleep a week after this ordeal. Arthur slowly stretches and balls his fingers, digits tingling as the feeling slowly comes back to them. The backs of his hands are bruised from Conch’s grip. “Thank you,” the youth mumbles and Arthur presses a kiss to the top of his head.

Toast and Capable clean up Conch and wrap him in fresh linens as Cheedo cradles the baby, whispering to her and explaining who all her aunts and uncle are. They’ve only just covered Conch when the hut’s flaps fly open and the Rock Rider Chief fills the entrance. Everyone is so surprised that they stare silently at him, and Arthur can tell he quickly pieces together what’s happened: a supine, half-conscious omega, heavy fear pheromones, a squirming new baby. The Dag pokes her head around the broad expanse of his shoulders. “I told him to mind his own, but he pushed past me!”

“Get out,” Arthur snaps.

The Chief smirks. “I need to speak with you.”

The pheromones, nor the presence of bloody linens, seem to faze him. Perhaps because Conch isn’t his mate, or part of his tribe. Much of alpha behavior is still a mystery to Arthur. “Fine,” he mumbles, gently moving Conch into a reclining position as he climbs off the bedding.

“Don’t go,” Conch whispers, face fearful, but Arthur just shakes his head to show it’s all right. His legs are asleep from being in the same position for so long, but masks his current state by pretending to help the sisters tidy up a bit—and deliberately making the Chief wait. He knows the alpha is smirking but refuses to look at him. Finally, he straightens and walks to the hut’s entrance.

“Let’s go,” he says, ducking past him and walking straight to his and Max’s hut.

“Arthur!” Max calls to him but he refuses to look over to his mate. If he looks at Max, he’ll stop walking and go to the alpha, and that will infinitely complicate the situation. Max has never approved of their arrangement with the canyon people, and he loathes the Chief. Arthur has always managed their arrangement by keeping the alphas apart, and if that means meeting privately with the Chief, so be it.

He’s hungry, dehydrated, eyes rapidly blinking as they adjust to natural light, and then they’re back inside the dim of the hut and he turns to face the Chief, chin tilted upward to consider him. Very much aware of how large the alpha is—head nearly touching the top of the hut, body completely blocking the doorway. Max calls for him again. “What do you need?” he asks politely.

The amused gleam in his eyes, always there when he looks at Arthur. “I’m here to see you.”

Arthur’s mouth is dry and he wishes for a single droplet of water, anything to make it possible to swallow. His Adam’s apple bobs reflexively, haplessly groping for moisture that isn’t there. He isn’t sure what to say in response. It’s an inappropriate comment, but he can’t be too overtly rude or the entire pact will incinerate. The only thing stopping the canyon people from overrunning their village and stealing the water is the Chief’s mysterious fixation.

He clears his throat. “You caught me off guard. Conch just gave birth and I should get back to him,” he finally says, walking to the entrance, hoping to neatly bypass the Chief.

Nothing is simple. The alpha grips his forearm, fingers nearly looping the circumference. “There’s an outbreak. Illness.” Arthur looks at him in alarm. “Nothing serious. Spots. I’ve quarantined them and it’s under control. We have medicine, but people need more water.”

Arthur considers the news and nods. “The riders can visit more regularly until the outbreak is over.”

The alpha’s brows quirk, corner of his lips curling in a smirk. “Thank you, boss.” His face warms as he nods and tries to leave again, but the Chief is still holding his arm. Arthur wheels around, prepared to ask what else he needs, but suddenly the alpha yanks him forward and leans down, pressing a kiss to his mouth. Arthur shoves at his chest, which is like pushing insistently at the base of a mountain, and the man barely registers his efforts. “You’re lovely,” he rumbles, warm breath washing across Arthur’s face.

“Get your hands off me,” Arthur spits through clenched teeth, painfully aware of his pregnant stomach pressed to the front of the Chief’s leathers.

The alpha seems surprised but obliges, releasing him at once. He straightens to his full height and gazes at him. “If you were my mate, I would drape you in furs and jewels. I wouldn’t let you live out here in the sand. In a shack,” he adds distastefully, examining their meager possessions. 

Arthur offers his best scowl. “I’m not interested and I don’t want to have this conversation again.”

The alpha tilts his head and Arthur thinks of Dog when he hears a strange, foreign noise. “I don’t recall asking if you’re interested.”

Much has changed in the world, but some things haven’t. Immortan is dead, but that doesn’t mean omegas are magically the equals of alphas. There are still many alpha kings who take what they please, regardless of what an omega like Arthur _wants_.

“Move,” Arthur growls. He silently makes calculations: Daku, Max, Gadget, The Dag, and him against three riders and the Chief. They could probably win that scrap with the riders, but not their leader. The Chief will try to take him and Arthur would probably go to prevent bloodshed.

Fortunately, the Chief chuckles and steps aside with a grand sweep of his arm, gesturing to the doorway.

Arthur stalks outside and back towards the lake where he sees the riders struggling to keep Max from charging up the bank. “Let him go!” he shouts and the men do—not because Arthur commanded it, but because they rightly assume the Chief is done speaking privately with him. Max stalks towards him and Arthur begins: “I’m sorry. They need to refill—” but doesn’t finish because Max walks right past, towards their hut. Horrified, Arthur runs after him. “Max!”

“Stay here, dammit,” Max growls, face fierce when he wheels around, surprising Arthur, who stumbles backwards. He’s not used to Max snapping at him.

 

* * *

 

The Chief strolls out of the hut and a truck slams into his chest. No, not a truck. A little man. A little, strong man. Arthur’s mate, the road warrior. It’s a good sucker shot, one he didn’t see coming, and he stumbles backwards, very nearly taking out the opposite wall of the hut, but catches his balance at the last moment. He laughs, genuinely impressed. “That’s the spirit!” he howls, clapping his gloved hands together.

The little man is not impressed. He’s breathing hard, teeth bared, and points a finger into his face. “If you ever ask to speak with my mate alone again, I’ll rip you apart.”

“Max!” Arthur calls from just outside the hut.

The Chief smirks, considering him. “I believe you will try, road warrior.”

The flaps fly apart and Arthur charges in, eyes wide, pregnant stomach visible through the transparent cloth, linens billowing around his legs. The Chief smiles upon seeing him. “I was just chatting with your mate!”

“Cheeky dog,” Max growls, still pointing, as though scolding the enormously powerful alpha. “Do you think I’ll let you steal him away?”

The Chief checks his gear, tightening straps, tugging on the hems of gloves, rightly assuming that he’ll need to make a hasty exit soon, “I doubt you’ll _let_ me do anything.”

“You should go,” Arthur says and The Chief bows, throwing one last smirk at the road warrior before he exits the hut.

 

* * *

 

Max is furious at him and refuses to join the village for dinner, but Arthur is starving so he goes alone (the babies, including Tallara, eat before the adult villagers) and devours an entire rat on his own, plus as many of The Dag’s vegetables as she’ll permit, and drinks plentifully from the lake. Daku has taken over baby and Conch duty, preparing a plate for his mate, and spending the evening inside the hut with them, but after dinner Arthur visits them. Daku is curled up beside the omega, a serene smile on his lips as he cradles his tiny daughter while Conch holds Rabi. 

Now that she’s free of blood and mucous, Arthur can see she has blue eyes, a glorious mixture of Conch and Daku’s gazes, and her hair is dark blonde. “A real beauty,” Arthur summarizes, flashing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Conch notices. “Are you all right?” Daku obviously hasn’t told him about the conflict with the Chief. 

Never before has Arthur been in a leadership position, but he was not prepared for how much lying it entails. He wonders how many secrets Immortan kept—how many deceptions Furiosa and the Chief pack deep inside their hearts to keep the peace and maintain order.

“Only tired,” he lies.

 

* * *

 

Max is curled up in bed, fully clothed and sulking. Tallara’s curl-covered head pokes up from around her father’s shoulder and she giggles. He sheepishly enters and gradually eases onto the bedding with an exaggerated sigh. When the alpha glances at him, Arthur rubs gingerly at his stomach, knowing his mate won’t be able to ignore the presence of their child, even if that child happens to be located inside his stomach. “Heya, bug,” he grins and Tallara giggles, dipping back down to bury her face against Max’s chest.

A faint smile traces his lips as he rubs her back and glances at Arthur. “Feel better?”

He hadn’t shared how he felt with his mate, but it doesn’t surprise Arthur to learn that Max knew. They’re bonded. He hums and nods, flashing a smile. Arthur silently watches his family a while as Tallara largely amuses herself, peeking up at Max, who pretends not to notice her until he twists his face into a funny mask, causing her to dissolve into a giggling fit. This goes on for a while, but Arthur wishes it would continue for the rest of time.

That way, he wouldn’t have to think about anything else.

Eventually, she’s tuckered and presses a chubby cheek to Max’s jacket lapel, sucking a thumb as she gazes up at her father’s sun-kissed face. He’s been growing a beard that Arthur’s meant to tell him he finds devilishly handsome and enjoys the rub against his thighs. “Tell me what to do,” Arthur whispers, suddenly feeling enormously guilty. He isn’t sure why. At no point did he ever have an option of not engaging with the Chief. Had he not struck the deal, they would probably all be dead.

Max glances at him, his face softening when he sees the unshed tears in Arthur’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he confesses, glancing down at Tallara, whose eyes are now shut. “I’d kill the bastard, but then we’ll have new problems.”

Arthur smiles slowly. He believes Max would indeed kill any alpha who solicited his mate, but fortunately thought ahead to the consequences of such an action. If Max killed the Chief, then the riders would overrun them anyway. At least, with the Chief alive, the village is safe because the Chief wishes Arthur to be safe. He carefully moves higher up on the bedding, mindful not to jostle Tallara who is now breathing loudly, but steadily, the telltale sign she’s fallen into a deep sleep. Sometimes they let her slumber between them, but Max says that’s only a temporary arrangement.

He settles onto his back and exhales, stroking his stomach. Tallara was a kicker and her sibling is too. Arthur wonders if it will be another girl and smiles slightly at the idea because he knows it would make Max so happy. The alpha touches his cheek and Arthur looks at him. “I love you as you are, but I’m an alpha, Arthur.”

With a pivot of his chin, he presses a kiss to Max’s fingertips. He knows what his mate means: Max is willing to let Arthur negotiate their treaty with the canyon people, but there are violations that cannot be tolerated. Arthur cannot meet alone with the Chief. The Chief cannot touch him. These are the rules, and some rules stand no matter which alpha decides to call himself king.

But they’ve had this conversation before. “You said you would not abide certain things,” Max begins and Arthur nods once. “Are you still not abiding them?”

The Chief grabbing him. The kiss. He sighs, afraid of how Max will respond to the truth. “It won’t happen again.”

An alpha like Immortan would have killed him over such an indiscretion, the Rider would probably slap his unwitting mate, but an alpha like Max quietly absorbs the news with a face like a black storm cloud and nods. He knows Arthur is not unfaithful—that the incident was not his decision. 

“No, it won’t,” he states plainly, with all the icy certainty of death.


	7. The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to deal with the Chief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advanced warning that things get intense between Arthur and the Chief in this chapter

He obsessively checks Tallara for spots the new few days. The Chief swore that the infected have been quarantined, but Arthur isn’t sure he believes him because there was a time when he wouldn’t have believed their ally capable of violating his personal boundaries, and now that that’s happened, he thinks the man is willing to do almost anything. Arthur strips naked and turns this way and that, making Max check him as well, and the alpha never complains about this task. Max is free from marks too, and when Arthur touches his brow, the skin is warm but not hot. 

They’re not sick.

Immense relief washes over him for approximately a day-and-a-half. Then the wails pour from The Dag’s hut and she races out, Gur clutched to her breast, moaning with tears in her eyes, and Arthur thinks: _Oh no, the baby_. But it’s not Gur. It’s Gadget. “Please spare him, _please_ ,” she cries to no one and everyone at the same time. “What will I do? What will I do if he dies?” Toast holds the baby while Arthur cradles their sister, stroking her long locks, gently guiding her away from the hut because now they’ll need to seal off the area. Spots are highly contagious. If The Dag and Gur have them, they’re doomed.

The next few days pass in tense silence but spots never emerge on his sister or the boy. Not even Cheedo seems pleased that she finally has The Dag to herself. Her face is a sullen slate as it rests against her sister’s shoulder and she occasionally offers a comforting word. Meanwhile, Max, who claims to have a special immunity against the disease (he says he’s interacted with infected marauding bands and never contracted it), delivers Gadget’s meals on a plate, depositing the food just outside the hut and then walking away. A few moments later, a brown hand eases past the flaps and lifts the plate inside.

“He’ll have a fever the first few days. We need to give him lots of water,” Toast explains to a temporarily calm Dag, “If he makes it seven days, he’s in the clear.”

Privately, Toast tells him one in three people die after contracting the disease. 

Inwardly, Arthur rages. The riders must have been infected with the disease, and the Chief most certainly knew this was a possibility. He brought plague into their village. He kissed Arthur. Was it an act of biological warfare? Gadget supervised the water extraction, probably joked with the men, slapped them on the backs in his friendly way. The disease jumped from them to him, inhaled through his strong lungs, past his laughing mouth.

Guilt gnaws at his bones. He walks to the hut, but stays ten hands back and calls to the man. Arthur tries to visit a few times every day, to make conversation and help the alpha pass the long hours. Usually, Gadget asks about The Dag and Gur, and Arthur tells him they’re doing well. At first, he believes the man will do the time standing on his head. Gadget is in good spirits the first few days, laughing, joking about his current situation. He tells Arthur a story about an omega from the Bartertown brothels who suffered from a perpetual case of spots, but in listening to the story, Arthur begins to think they were spots of a different nature.

On the fourth day, Gadget is quiet. When Arthur asks him questions, he responds curtly, which is so unlike him that he hurries back to their hut and tells Max the news. His mate processes the update quietly and sighs: “The fever is spiking. He’s in a bad way, Arthur.” When he asks how the alpha can be certain (no one is permitted inside the hut), Max tosses an exasperated look: “I just know.”

He leaves bowls of water and they’re dry within minutes. Gadget chugs the offers, but never leaves the hut to make water because his body is a scorching engine, the water evaporating almost as quickly as it hits his tongue. Arthur knows there is medicine to cure the spots at the Citadel, but it will take too long to get it whereas the canyon is closer, and the Chief mentioned they have the antidote. “No,” Max spits the second Arthur brings up the idea. 

“He trusts me. Maybe he’ll give me some medicine…”

“In exchange for what, Arthur?” Max growls.

Arthur doesn’t answer because he doesn’t want to say the words aloud.

At the end of the fourth day, Furiosa arrives in one of the Citadel’s refashioned coupes, minus blood bag pole, though that doesn’t stop Max from warily eyeing the vehicle, perhaps recalling his journey strapped to the front of Nux’s car. They tell her about Gadget and the infection and she nods, not an ounce of surprise registering on her face, then asks to see Conch and the baby. Daku and Conch spend most of their days inside the hut, tending to the new baby, far away from the contagion radius. A smile spreads across her face when she sees the babe cradled to the omega’s chest and Conch glows in return. “This is Bindi,” he announces.

“A fine name,” Furiosa coos, though doesn’t ask to hold the child. Arthur wonders if she’s afraid her metal arm will frighten her. “Well done you,” she grins to a blushing Daku, but he mumbles his thanks before returning attention to the sleeping girl and his still-exhausted mate.

They grant the mates some privacy and return to Max and Arthur’s hut. There, Furiosa asks him how he’s feeling, but doesn’t touch his stomach, which Arthur appreciates. He loves his sisters, but sometimes their constant doting and grooming sets his nerves on edge. Though, now that the prospect of them leaving looms large on the horizon, he feels guilty for ever taking their attention for granted. Soon, the baby will be here and the village will have to contend with having five children running around. 

Arthur glosses over his own condition, as is his nature. Max has been trying to get him to sit more, exert himself less, though he refuses. There’s too much to do right now and he can’t afford to feel tired. He tells the alpha about Gadget, how it seems as though, at least right now, they have the outbreak under control. She listens with a grave face, and yet he can’t help but notice she continues to look as though this is expected news.

After a moment, she glances to the entrance of the hut and addresses them in a lowered voice, asking them to keep what she is about to tell them secret. Max and Arthur trade a concerned glance and agree.

“I believe the Rock Rider Chief deliberately exposed your village to the outbreak.” Arthur’s stomach sours, though this was his suspicion as well. Still, he asks her how she can be sure. Furiosa straightens and draws in a deep breath. “Seven days ago, a man from the Canyon came to the Citadel seeking sanctuary. He was infected with spots and I believe the Chief sent him as an act of war. We were able to contain him, though not before he infected twelve others. Three have died.”

Max gives one of his concerned hums. “He has to go.”

The other alpha nods. “I agree. I believe he intends to invade your village and either occupy it or raze it to the ground, and he has been known to kill children.” Arthurs swallows thickly, remembering the sensation of his hard stomach pressed between them when the Chief stole his kiss. Even when imagining the nefarious motives of the Chief, Arthur always imagined the act of stealing him away would include his children. Never before did he imagine the canyon king might kill his babies, but he’s been foolish. Of course the Chief would never accept his children, each one-half of an enemy alpha. “But…” Furiosa continues, “I’m unsure how to proceed. Joe tried to kill him a few times and failed each time. He’s a paranoid tyrant and will immediately suspect something if I ask to visit. I was hoping the outbreak would take care of him, but he seems healthy. I considered sending an assassin, but he’ll never take in someone from the Citadel.”

“I’ll go,” Arthur volunteers at once, “He trusts me.”

“No,” Max growls, eyes wide in horror, “He could kill you and the baby. Let me and Daku go.”

Arthur patiently considers him. “Because that worked so well last time?” Max shoots him a look like fire, but he continues, “We can’t wait any longer. We’ve already waited too long. Tallara could have gotten sick. This ends now. I’ll go to him and pretend you treated me poorly. I’ll say I’m sick of living in a hut,” he says, recycling The Chief’s own disdain about how they live, “I’ll beg for him to take me in.”

Max spits _no_ again, but Furiosa looks thoughtful. “That could work. He’s very taken with you, but how will you fare in the desert on a hard journey?” She warily surveys the steep slope of his stomach and heavy breasts.

It’s harder to breathe these days. His back always aches and his ankles are painfully swollen. “I’ll be fine.”

“This is crazy,” Max mutters, face twisted in disgust.

Arthur reaches for his balled fist. “Gadget will die from fever, and if not from illness, then by the Chief’s blade. He’ll kill everyone. He’ll kill the babies.” Arthur imagines a row of sand mounds. Tiny graves. “Do you still doubt my abilities?”

The alpha frowns, fingers unfurling so Arthur can cradle them. “Of course not.” 

“Then let me do this. I led this monster into our home. Let me deal with him.”

The scowl on his mate’s face softens into wavering uncertainty. Furiosa senses an opportunity and suggests: “We can camouflage ourselves nearby. After Arthur handles the Chief, we’ll invade and secure the canyon.” Max sighs and looks to her. “We should have done this before, Max, but I lacked the alphas and firepower. That’s no longer the case.”

He nods slowly, knowing they’re right, but refusing to utter the words that will send away his mate and unborn child. 

Furiosa seizes on his acquiescence, “We have to move fast. We’ll leave the omegas here to care for the babies and Gadget, and you and Daku will join me for the invasion.”

The plan unnerves Arthur. Without Gadget, they’ll be missing their most skilled marksman. Perhaps sensing his hesitancy, Furiosa offers a cocky smirk. “I haven’t forgotten how to shoot, you know.”

His lips curl in a blossoming grin, but the expression vanishes when he notes his mate’s bleak appearance. “You’ll have my back,” he whispers, dipping close to nuzzle a bearded cheek.

Max grunts agreeably, but fear floods his nostrils when Arthur breathes the alpha’s scent.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t say goodbye to Tallara, reasoning the child will sense his distress and become upset, and also that he’ll see her soon anyway. He has to be optimistic and remember his mission. Nor do they tell Conch what they’re doing. The lie is that Daku is joining them on one last supply run before Furiosa takes the omegas back to the Citadel. Arthur loves his brother, but if Conch ever learned the truth, he would sob until Daku refused to ever leave his side, and then they would be forced to wait until the Chief invades and kills them all. 

Furiosa leaves him far from the canyon, and Arthur waits until the car is a speck of dust on the horizon to shed the linen. 

There are parts of his plan that he’s kept even from Furiosa and Max, knowing they would object to their extreme nature. Naked, he trudges across the unforgiving landscape until his body is coated in sweat and dirt, tops of shoulders and tip of his nose red from the sun, giving the appearance that he has made the long trek from their village. The tears are easy because he simply thinks of his daughter, of his unforgivable naiveté that endangered the whole tribe; of the open trust with which Max gazes at him. Then the tears come because of physical pain: his chest and stomach are heavy and pull agonizingly at his spine, ankles swelling until they merge with his calf muscles, toes puffing up like fat little caterpillars.

He can barely walk by the time he clears the last dune and sees the canyon’s entrance. Arthur actually sobs in gratitude. Whatever happens next, at least it won’t be the endless, unforgivable march across the barren terrain. “Help!” he cries, mimicking shame by covering his breasts and the flesh between his legs. “Please, help me!” His voice breaks, body crumbling just past the entrance, Arthur dissolving into a sobbing mound of brutalized flesh, adopting the appearance of an abused omega.

The Vuvalini had a word for this helpless act.

_Bait._

Nothing happens for a long time, and at first Arthur believes the Chief and canyon people will know it’s a trap. In reality, there is a sophisticated chain of calls traveling up the canyonside to the Chief’s dwelling, announcing Arthur’s arrival and his dire condition. During this time, he continues the performance, quietly weeping as he begs for help. He’s dizzy from the heat, stomach seizing painfully in waves of nausea. The throb in his ankles travels up legs and shakes his pelvis, adding authenticity to the plea. His breasts leak, the milk running down the swells and across his stomach, leaving miserable moisture trails in the sand.

The worse things get, the more gratitude Arthur feels.

Surely, the Chief won’t believe he would willingly subject himself to this humiliation.

In his assessment, things are taking too long, so he shifts to his his knees and begins to crawl naked through the canyon. Small rocks and debris lodge into his knees and palms, Arthur’s cries carving a path through the ravine. Finally, a rider appears and drapes a linen across his back, helping Arthur to his feet and wrapping him. “All is well. He wishes to see you,” the man whispers to him in a kind tone. _Perhaps it’s working after all_ , he thinks, followed by: _I hope she spares you_. 

Just because their king is a tyrant doesn’t mean the canyon people are to blame.

“Thank you, thank you,” Arthur moans, and that part isn’t an act. He does feel gratitude.

The Rock Rider Chief is standing inside his large hut, which is bedecked with the garish throne, jewels, furs, and regal accouterments. Very similar to the Immortan’s vault, Arthur bitterly thinks when he’s marched inside and presented to the king. _Powerful men always feel entitled to all the treasures of the world_. He sniffles and glances at the alpha, whose brow furrows in confusion at the sight of him. “What’s happened?” he asks, urgent and fierce.

The response blindsides Arthur. This is not the joyful response of a victor. 

Arthur whimpers and launches into his prepared speech: “One of our alphas caught spots and I told my mate about…when we were alone,” here he trails off and self-consciously glances at the rider who escorted him. The Chief waves his hand and the man leaves the hut. “He knows about the kiss. He went mad.” Arthur’s voice wavers, chin dipping low. The Chief crosses the hut in three strides and touches his face, tenderly, not like a conquerer. Arthur’s brain makes wild recalculations. “He stripped me, humiliated me in front of the entire village, and sent me away,” he whispers, dissolving into a cry.

Powerful arms wrap around him, hands like bear paws rubbing in comforting circles across the span of his back, surprising Arthur into silence. “You will stay here, with me,” the alpha finally offers.

Spotting an opportunity, he leans back, tilting a face still carved with tear trails towards him. “Did you try to infect us? Infect me?”

Confusion, then amusement, the Chief laughing as he cups Arthur’s face and brushes away the tears. “You? Never you. I thought the disease was quarantined. I was wrong. One of the men I brought fell ill that night, but I had no idea.”

A wise voice tells him to proceed with caution. Maybe the Chief didn’t mean to infect their village, but certainly he meant to send the spot-covered rider to the Citadel. _Unless that was a coincidence too_. The Chief leans down and kisses him, while Arthur focuses on not pulling away. He remains sweet and pliant, but non-reciprocating, hoping the Chief will peg his lack of enthusiasm on the long journey. _He could be lying again. About everything_ , Arthur considers as the alpha leans back and gazes at him.

He has wide, dark eyes and the stubble of his beard is tinged with white hairs. An old leader: wise, barbaric, fiercely intelligent.

“I knew he was lying about you,” Arthur whispers, offering a small, self-conscious smile. It’s a practiced expression, one offered in mock humbleness to stroke the ego of powerful alphas. For authenticity, he adds: “Would you allow my daughter to come here?”

A hesitation: small, but it’s there. “Of course,” he responds lightly, but Arthur detects the venom running like an undercurrent. Maybe he would allow his children to stay with them, but they would always be second-class. If they survived their first years. “What of your omega sisters and brother?”

This is a test. If Arthur responds too callously, the Chief will know something is amiss. “They’re fertile. They could be brought here to help the canyon populate.”

“And their mates?”

He pretends to consider this with the appropriate amount of grave burden. “Gadget is ill. He won’t likely survive the week, and if Daku is wise, he’ll flee the village when he sees the riders coming.”

The Chief hums and squints at him. Arthur ties not to panic when he notices something like suspicion flicker in his gaze. He draws comfort by believing the Chief is just being thorough, the needling paranoia refusing to grant him a moment’s peace. “And your mate?”

Arthur allows himself to believe the words, infusing them with just the right quake and break when he whispers: “He doesn’t want me.”

The ability to serve as hero and savior obscures the pinholes through which lingering suspicion casts light.The Chief makes a soft noise of sympathy and cups his cheeks, smoothing away the tears. “He’s a fool.” Each of his instincts have now been confirmed: that Arthur desires him and Max is a weak mate. The alpha presses another kiss to his mouth and Arthur makes a soft noise of pleasure, even as a dark cloud churns in his mind: _You tried to kill my babies._

Perhaps not even the Chief understands his nefarious purpose anymore, and may have convinced himself that the chances of infection were low—that by some divine hand Arthur and the babies really would be spared—but there is a likelier possibility: The Chief desires him, is pleased he has come to him and indicated willingness to serve as is mate, but Arthur, like everything else in this world, is expendable. Had he and the children died, then the worst case scenario was the Chief would have been able to annex their water.

 _I see who you are now_ , Arthur thinks while offering a shy smile. “Can I wash?” The unsaid part: _For you_. Before they mate. Before they begin their life together.

The alpha’s eyes shine in approval. “For your king?” he responds, caressing Arthur’s neck, the fingers tightening around his chin. He tries to be coy and smile in agreement, but the Chief adds: “Say it, my sweet.”

“For you, my king.” The words come easy, though they leave a foul residue in his mouth. 

The Chief leaves soon after, called away on business (most likely related to the outbreak), while a young boy carries in a basin of water and a stack of rags. He’s a scrawny little thing, clearly malnourished and neglected, and the parental part of Arthur wants to feed and put him to bed. Arthur asks his name and the boy responds _Arvo_ , but hesitates before leaving. When Arthur quirks an inquisitive brow, he spews: “I thought the other omega was you and I’m sorry the Chief hurt him.”

 _Conch_. Arthur nods and sheds the linens, Arvo discreetly (and quickly) looking away. He dips a rag in the cool liquid and begins to wash. It will take a while. He’s covered from head-to-toe in grime from the desert. “You caused quite a bit of trouble.” His tone is playful, but the boy is frowning by the time he glances at him again. Arthur is about to say he’s only jesting when the boy says in a single breath:

“He beat me for it, said I embarrassed the canyon ‘cause I’m subpar.” Arthur owlishly blinks at him, frozen in surprise and horror. Arvo is barely able to stand. He can’t imagine a huge man like the Chief physically hurting him. Max would never lay a hand on their children. “There are babies in your village, yeah? Other pups?” He isn’t sure where this is going until Arvo casts a wary glance past the hut’s flaps and then whispers to him: “Could I go? Would they take me?”

“I don’t know. They drove me out,” Arthur hedges, thinking maybe this is a test. Arvo could be a spy. He runs a cool, sopping rag over his sunburnt shoulder. Last to be washed is his face and hair, the dump locks curling around his ears.

The boy nervously licks his lips, fingers flurrying as he picks at the buttons of his shirt. “I know they’re waiting for you. I saw the car hiding behind a dune, but don’t worry. I didn’t tell.”

Arthur nearly overturns the basin when he races forth and roughly grabs the boy, covering his mouth with a wet hand and shaking him. “ _Quiet_ ,” he growls, dropping the docile omega playacting. The boy’s eyes are huge in his skull. “Has anyone else seen it?” he asks, peeling back his fingers.

Arvo quivers and shakes his head. “N-no. I kept it secret. I want to go back with you.”

He thinks maybe this is all part of an elaborate scheme, as complex as the one Arthur has crafted. The boy’s face and arms are bruise-free, but any marks could have easily vanished since the last time Arthur saw him during negotiations. Arvo may be a gifted actor, but he doubts it. The fear on his face looks real, though Arthur has to be sure.

“I’ll consider it, if you bring me something.”

The boy frowns. “What?”

Arthur smiles and releases him, standing completely nude and dripping wet, but no longer playing at being afraid. “A knife.”

 

* * *

 

The Chief returns to the hut soon after, when Arvo is already gone on his mission, and Arthur is sprawled out on the bedding. He offers a beguiling smile that does not match the wild pendulum swing of his body: one moment fine, another moment tormented by fits and nausea. Without his gear and crown helmet, the Chief simply looks like a hungry man, eyeing him longingly even as he searches the hut for something—Arthur isn’t sure what. 

He kneels to watch. 

The alpha fishes out a crate filled with vials—glass ones, filled with yellow liquid—and small clear, plastic baggies containing syringes. Arthur hasn’t seen medical supplies since…he can’t remember. Maybe he only ever saw pictures of them in Ms. Giddy’s books. Not even the Citadel has them. The Chief notices his surprise. “Buried shops. Not far from here. Lots of clothes. Must have been a clinic too. I’ll take you later. We can fetch you lots of nice things.”

Arthur offers a nice smile and arches his back when the Chief approaches for another kiss, suppressing the sickened shiver when the alpha reaches down to grope his breast. “These are pretty,” he notes approvingly. “You’ll give us a taste later, hm?”

“Yes, my king,” he purrs, face warming in anger when he imagines Tallara waiting for him at home, probably hungry for milk.

 _You endangered my children_ , the dark swirl repeats. _My body is not your property_. After a while, the voice begins to sound like Splendid.

“Good boy,” he nips Arthur’s lower lip and dips down to pick up the crate. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” With a wink, he departs.

When the flaps shut, he wipes angrily at his mouth and sprawls on the bedding, rubbing his stomach in apologetic circles. _I’m sorry. We won’t be here much longer_. Though it’s impossible, he thinks the baby knows they’re far from home and is kicking more than usual, perhaps as a reminder that they need to hurry back to the village. He closes his eyes and tries to remember Max and Tallara’s faces, while attempting not to think about what the Chief will want from him if he gets back before Arvo.

Would Max still want him if the Chief rutted him? _Of course_ , the voice says, and Arthur knows it’s true. His mate is a good, decent man, quite the rarity in the desert. Arthur misses him like a limb.

He could survive it. He’s lived through worse: Immortan, raging, beating Conch, and Arthur stepping in to slap and bite until the alpha took him instead. The wounds from Immortan are not gone, but they’re faded. These days, he even enjoys rutting on all fours. Though the nightmares linger, his favorite moments are when he’s naked and writhing with Max, connected in the most intimate way imaginable. It makes him sick to imagine another alpha touching him like that, but he’ll do it if that’s what it takes to keep his people safe.

He drops his chin to collarbone and watches the hut’s flaps. Fate will decide who returns first. If it’s the Chief, Arthur will smile and resume his performance, and he will make it convincing to save his family. If it’s Arvo, he will resume planning to kill the Chief.

Shuffling outside. The flaps quiver and Arthur holds his breath.

Arvo pokes his head inside and grins widely, hurrying to the bedding and pulling out a long, thin knife from his sleeve. “I got it from the butcher.” Arthur takes it by the handle and examines the blade’s jagged edge. He very nearly kisses Arvo’s cheek with gratitude, but instead offers a smile.

“Well done. I will bring you back to the village with me.”

The boy glows and hurries off. Reaching to the side, he peels back layers of bedding and hides the knife, handle pointed to the edge for easy access.

Then he lays back and resumes waiting, fingertips lightly drumming on his stomach, a merry sort of Morse code to their unborn child. _All is well. One step closer to home._

 

* * *

It’s twilight when the Chief returns, flashing an apologetic smile that soothes Arthur’s nerves. The alpha is already doting on him as though he was his mate. “A temporary scare,” he explains. “One of the children has spots. We quarantined him, gave him the injection, he’ll be well in three days.” 

Arthur thinks of poor Gadget. “Good,” he smiles, arching his back, breasts lifting towards the arches.

Which receives the desired effect of securing the Chief’s attention. He smirks, setting aside the crate, and walking to the bedding. “You are divine,” he sighs, kneeling on the bedding, still huge even at that vantage point. Arthur feels as though he’s constantly standing in the man’s shadow whenever they occupy the same space. He sucks in a deep, panicked, breath hitching when the man gropes between his legs with thick, calloused fingers. Evidently, the Chief misses his distress, burying his face against Arthur’s neck. “Even with his child in you.”

 _His_ child. Not Arthur’s. Because that’s how a man like the Chief views the world: alphas plant seeds inside incubators that serve the dual purposes of receiving alpha’s swollen flesh. He waits for a finger to breach him, but it never happens. Instead, the Chief grips his neck and strokes it. The alpha intends to take his time, now that Arthur has finally wandered into his web. His mouth is hot and wet as it sucks on the omega’s breast, rubbing his face against it, delighting in the heavy weight against his cheek. “No matter. It will be out of you soon,” he purrs, pressing into Arthur’s stomach.

He shoves the alpha harder than he means to, but masks the aggressive gesture with a smile. “You’ll like me this way,” he suggests, moving onto his hands and knees, torso almost draped over the side of bedding, rear stuck high in the air. He’s not wet, but the alpha hasn’t noticed yet. 

The Chief groans a single elongated expletive and grips between his thighs, stroking. “Do you know how many times I imagined this?” He hears the alpha unfasten his pants, clasps jangling as he shoves down his pants. The head of his cock leaves a hot trail of moisture along Arthur’s thigh. Funny. He’s been bowed before two kings this way, and each time felt he was the one with all the real power. Arthur listens to the ragged breath of the Rock Rider Chief, glancing backwards to watch the man stroke himself, delighted at the sight of an omega spread open for him. “Say you want my cock.”

“I want your cock,” Arthur repeats, looking at him.

“My king,” he prompts.

“My king,” Arthur agrees.

The man drapes heavy over his back, hips grinding, and Arthur gasps for breath, stomach pressed firmly to the bedding. The alpha means to naturally align and thrust inside for maximum depth. He wants to make Arthur squeal because it’s not enough for his girth to be legend. He wants to feel it defeat the omega. _Now_ , Splendid’s voice commands. Arthur gropes blindingly for the knife’s handle and feels the wooden grain against his palm.

He yanks it out and the Chief immediately grabs his wrist.

“ _Traitor_ ,” the alpha growls, wrestling him onto his back even as Arthur thrashes and attempts to bury the blade into his flesh. “ _Slut_ ,” he accuses, slamming Arthur’s hand against the ground, the knife’s blade thumping against Persian rug. 

“No,” Arthur moans, desperately reaching for it. This isn’t happening. It can’t end this way.

The Chief has him by the neck, choking, shaking him like a rag doll, and Arthur’s mouth opens in a soundless cry. The alpha’s face has changed, replaced by a mask of rage, and something worse, a sort of maniacal light in his eyes. Arthur realizes too late that this is the man’s real face. “I’ll choke you unconscious and fuck you anyway,” he growls. Arthur claws at his chest and hands, but they’re like cement pillars crushing his windpipe, so he reaches up, slapping the man’s face and gouging at his eyes.

All the while, the Chief laughs.

Arthur’s face is scarlet. The world is shrinking at its edges, reducing to a pinpoint, the Chief waiting in anticipation for him to pass out or die. He doesn’t care which.

 _No_. _No_ , he weakly insists inside the dark swirl.

He feels Splendid take his hand, guiding him. Where are they? A gravel road set inside one of Ms. Giddy’s pastural paintings. _No one will hurt you anymore_ , she tells him, but Arthur doesn’t want to go with her. “Where’s Max and Tallara?” he asks and Splendid looks very sad for him.

A clap of metallic thunder. Strange, because there are no storm clouds.

Arthur’s eyes fly open and he sucks in a breath with all the mighty force of the watering’s valves. The Chief’s surprised face greets him, frozen in a sort of dazed mask, Arvo standing behind him clutching a heavy silver tray. With huge eyes, Arthur watches trails of blood slide down the side of the Chief’s face, and suddenly Arvo dives for something. He doesn’t understand until the wooden grain returns to his palm. Swiftly, Arthur draws a red line across the man’s throat that blossoms into a waterfall.

Now it is the Chief’s turn to gulp for air, to watch him with a face that screams _No_ , unwilling to believe these are his final moments. He falls off Arthur, clawing at his neck, pressing palms into the wound, naively believing he can stop the flow. Arthur and Arvo watch the performance in silence until the man grows pale and his thrashing is less insistent. It’s almost over, but before the Rock Rider Chief draws his last breath, Arthur crawls to him and leans down low so his face is the last thing the man sees.

“I love Max. He’s a good man.” He can’t be sure, but there’s something like a begrudging gleam of respect in the man’s eyes. A terrible noise pours from his throat, wind howling past a small hole. _You fooled me, little slut_. “An alpha like you could never have me. We’re going to help your people and soon no one will remember your name.”

The gleam vanishes, replaced by fear that flares in a final burst at the end. The light suddenly vanishes and Arthur understands he’s dead.  

Arvo races to the throne and rummages underneath it, pulling out an orange flare gun. “What’re you doing?” Arthur asks, gaze lingering on the Chief’s still face. Alphas always look smaller in death.

“Gonna shoot fer help,” he explains.

“Not yet.” Arthur climbs from the bedding and picks up an exotic linen draped across the throne. It’s silk, vibrantly patterned, and Arthur ties it around his throat, crossing the strands over his breasts, around the curved belly, and securing it at the waist. He wanted to do this before, but was still pretending to be a meek omega. “Bring me gasoline and fire.”

He douses the Chief’s body with fuel and burns it, along with the rest of the hut and all the stolen artifacts. The sole vestige he saves is the box of antibiotics, syringes, and other medical supplies. The fire quickly attracts the attention of the rest of the canyon, who creep out from their caves in the rock to gaze up in horror at the tall column of flame and smoke, and Arthur standing beside it. The omega, returned once more to conquer the canyon.

For many years, the Chief has shielded them from books and education, causing them to revert to religious dogma, believing he is a god. They kneel on the canyon floor, crying, ripping at their hair and gnashing teeth as they beg for Arthur to spare them. The plague, the fire, all seem to exist to verify their worst fears.

Only when they are knelt and offering their allegiance does Arthur fire the flare. Their wails curtail, filthy faces turned to Walhalla, eyes wide and reflecting the orange arc. Furiosa’s car roars into the canyon a moment later and the riders scream, remembering the last visit by the Immortan and the War Rig. “Quiet! We mean you no harm!” Arthur thunders, voice ricocheting off the rocks and surprising everyone, including himself. The vantage point must naturally amplify his voice. 

Furiosa cuts the engine and alights, a new hush falling over the crowd as they consider her. Daku and Max leap out as well, each armed, the tips of barrels aimed at opposite canyon walls, searching for snipers. The canyon is growing dark as night approaches, but the fire illuminates the scene and Arthur smiles affectionately when he sees the light reflect off Max’s glasses. He won’t miss any shots.

“I am Imperator Furiosa, captain of the War Rig, keeper of the Citadel!” A hush falls over the canyon as her voice booms through the ravine. “Your king is dead! You have no food or water. Your children are sick. You will be dead within seven days!” She lets the dire reality sink in, and no one thinks to shout her down. The horrible truth is: she’s right. The canyon people are doomed, have been for quite some time, but the Chief was in denial for too long. “I am not a slave trader or barbarian. If you wish to be road warriors, so be it, but all will be welcome at the Citadel. We have food, shelter, and medicines. If you are willing to contribute, no one will be turned away!”

Slowly, shadows creep towards Furiosa: first an elder with white hair and wrinkled skin. She bows deferentially, kissing the Imperator’s boots until she insists that the old woman rise. Next, an orphan with tangled blonde hair. As Furiosa stoops and picks her up, Arthur thinks about Bindi and his own daughter. Another insistent kick from inside his stomach. He covers the point of impact and rubs gently. 

It appears the canyon people are agreeable, but suddenly a shout carries over the ridge. “Death to the Citadel’s queen!” a disembodied voice cries. Arthur ducks behind a boulder and peeks out, afraid because he can’t see who is shouting the traitorous words. Nor can Furiosa, but she doesn’t dive for cover. Instead, the alpha squints up into the darkness. Arthur wants to shout at her, to tell her to hide, but Furiosa is not one to run. A horrible silence follows. _Schklikt._ Instantly, Arthur knows that noise: the pump of a shotgun. 

Daku wheels around, aims his rifle, and fires into the night, but Arthur still can’t see where the target is—not until a shadow topples from the rocks, ankles over head, an avalanche of limbs and debris until the sniper rolls across the canyon floor. Furiosa balances a boot atop the corpse’s crown. “Any other objectors?” she asks.

Not a peep.

It takes him a few moments to realize Arvo is crouched beside him, breathing heavily. “She’s scary,” he observes.

Arthur smiles slowly, the realization that they’ve won washing over him like a warm wave. “Stay close,” he tells the boy, “I’ll show you the way.”

 

* * *

Three days. That’s how long Furiosa gives the canyon people to surrender to the Citadel. Most of them have begun the long trek before they’ve even left, packing their bikes with as much as they can afford to transport without the bikes toppling. Arthur keeps his features schooled until Max grabs him in a fierce embrace and he embarrassingly erupts into violent sobs, desperately trying to muffle the noise against his mate’s shoulder. Max doesn’t ask him what happened and Arthur’s heart swells with gratitude. They stand locked together for a long time, the alpha stroking his hair, until Furiosa clears her throat.  

“We should go.”

Gingerly, they load Arthur into the car along with Arvo. He introduces the boy to his tribe and Max stares at him before grunting (Arthur explains to the boy that this is a stirring endorsement). The alphas pile in soon after, five of them tightly sardined during the voyage. “You have quite a mate,” Furiosa observes, voice raised above the engine as the car jostles across hostile terrain, Max’s hand protectively guarding Arthur’s stomach the whole time.

His answer is a tender kiss pressed to Arthur’s temple.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, Conch has worked out what’s happened since the time they’ve been gone. Arthur suspects that his sister, The Dag, may have spilled their secret, or perhaps the bond between Conch and Daku is so strong that the youth felt his mate’s panic and that, combined with the smoke pouring from the canyon, solidified his suspicions. Whatever the case, he’s furious when they return. Conch marches up to Daku and swats at his arm in what is probably supposed to be a mighty strike, but ultimately causes Daku to laugh in surprise. “Oh, come now,” he chuckles while cradling the omega, petting his hair as Conch curses him—a sign of how severely angry he is because Arthur can’t remember the last time he heard the youth utter profanity. 

Furiosa delivers the medicine to The Dag, who immediately sprints for the hut to inject Gadget. Afterwards, she tells them they’ve arrived just in time because the alpha has been curled inside the hut all day, unresponsive, feverish and shivering. A few hours after injection, he is awake and chatty again. At dawn, he is sitting up and the spots have begun to disappear. 

Furiosa has been gone from the Citadel too long, and will need to make a hasty journey back in order to meet the canyon people upon their arrival, so the visiting omegas quickly pack their things into the car. The goodbyes are weepy, with many promises of return. Cheedo clings to The Dag as Capable makes her rounds, sure to kiss each baby atop their heads and utter a blessing. Toast embraces Arthur and smiles up at him. “My, my,” she says, touching his belly. “Splendid would be proud.”

Arthur rests his hands atop hers, knowing she doesn’t mean pride in the pregnancy. He briefly recalls the hallucination: the road, Splendid’s cool hand.

“I saw her,” he whispers.

They might as well be discussing the weather. Toast smiles. “I would expect nothing less. She never knew how to rest.”

 

* * *

 

Conch wants to be petty. For starters, he’d like to tell Daku he’s not allowed to hold Bindi because negligent mates don’t get to hold their daughters whenever they like. He’s angry that the alpha left them, and lied on top of it, to engage in an incredibly dangerous mission. Imagine if Daku had died. Not only would Conch feel ripped in half, but he’d then have to raise two babies on his own. 

But he’s never been very good at holding a grudge, especially when he feels so enormously grateful that his mate is back and safe. Plus, Rabi giggles happily when he sees the alpha and Conch bawls all over again because the baby and Daku have officially bonded, which is all he’s ever wanted, and who could be angry after that?

They gather the babies and huddle on the bedding, Daku alternating between pressing kisses to Rabi’s dark head and nuzzling Conch. Bindi’s stomach is full of milk and she slumbers blissfuly against Conch’s chest. The alpha watches her enviously. “Best seat in the house,” he observes and Conch laughs.

It’s a serene, almost normal moment, interrupted by Furiosa who enters their hut on her way out of the village. “I need to speak with you,” she says to Daku, whose spine straightens the moment the alpha enters their quarters—a soldier standing at attention. 

Conch feels sick as he warily watches Furiosa.

“On the off chance the canyon people don’t all leave, I’d like someone to stay in the ravine and guard it.” A new Rock Rider Chief, she means. “And I thought you might be up for it.” Daku is momentarily speechless, mouth dropped open as Conch looks at him, alarmed. “But…surely, Max…” he begins.

“I need him here, for the village. And Gadget is needed for fixes. Besides, you handled yourself quite well back there.” She grins. This is the highest form of praise coming from Furiosa. She’s calling him capable.

“I…” Daku trails off, stunned and hugely flattered. This is an entirely different offer than being brought in as a secondary on an annex project. Daku would run the show in the canyon. The full weight of obligation lowers upon him when he looks down at the babies and then to Conch’s face. “What do you think?”

The implication, of course, being that Conch and the babies would come with him. His reflex is to be agreeable and Conch spouts some inane commonplace, something about it being a wonderful opportunity, but Daku’s raised brows tell him he isn’t buying the response. His heart races, very much aware they’re both watching him, and a bit panicked that he may have to leave the omegas behind. _Conch_ , Daku gingerly prompts when he sees his mate struggling to speak, skin flushed, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. “I don’t want to leave Larrikin and The Dag again. They’re my family,” he chokes out.

The alpha nods slowly, only considering his words briefly before looking to Furiosa and flashing a crooked smile. “I appreciate the consideration, but Conch is right. This is our home.”

Furiosa hardly looks surprised. If anything, there is a satisfied gleam in her eyes when she approaches the bedding and fares the babies well, followed by a clenched fist over her heart when she considers Conch. He mimicks the gesture. “When I met you, you had a light inside,” she says.

Honestly, sometimes he can’t tell the difference between talking to her and speaking with Max. They both have a habit of speaking in riddles. “Is it still there?” he asks.

Furiosa, for some reason, finds this amusing and chuckles as she exits the hut, answering at the last moment: “It’s brighter now.”

They’re quiet for a while, listening to the sounds of departure: muffled voices, some weeping, and the rumble of an engine. For his part, Conch has already said goodbye to his sisters and doesn’t want to watch them leave. That part will be too hard. He simply lays there, weathering the evidence of their existences being stripped away like layers of old paint. Then it’s just the noises of the desert and their babies: Rabi experimenting with noises, Bindi shifting in her sleep and exhaling through her little nostrils. 

“You would have been a king,” Conch quietly notes, thinking of the Chief’s golden throne, the jewels, and ancient sculptures. Yes, Arthur burned most of it, but the canyon people (whoever is left) would have brought Daku whatever he demanded. He would have had complete power, second only to Furiosa. 

Daku shrugs slowly, watching his daughter’s sleeping face, which is half his face, and bright, young Rabi who watches him like he’s the sun. “I would give up all the world’s riches to be with you.”

When the alpha looks at him, there are tears brimming in his eyes, and Conch offers a soft apology, a bit embarrassed to be weeping this much. Blame it on the hormones. “Do all the Bullet Town boys have silver tongues?” he whispers, smiling when Daku touches his cheek, wiping away the descending tear.

“No. Guess you’re just lucky,” the alpha jokes, eyes shining.

Conch leans towards him, careful not to disturb Bindi, and kisses him. “I am,” he agrees, “Very lucky.”

 

* * *

 

Tallara screams so loudly upon seeing him that Dog’s ears dart straight up and he runs from the hut. Arthur laughs, picking her up, ignoring Max’s insistence that he be careful given his extremely pregnant state. He doesn’t want to tell his mate he’s been through much worse, and thought for a brief moment he would never hold his daughter again. “Did you miss me?” he asks superfluously because Tallara is smiling and looking to Max as though searching for confirmation that this truly is the happiest moment of her life. 

Max gently touches his neck and Arthur sighs, realizing by the throb of flesh that there must be deep bruising. It’s all he can manage to swallow and his voice comes in brief, hoarse bursts. “Devil,” Max grunts, face darkening.

He opens his mouth to provide comfort, something about how the Chief is dead and died knowing his utter insignificance, but the baby kicks at that moment and Arthur winces instead. The alpha takes Tallara from him and he smiles at her concerned expression. “I’m okay. It’s just your sister…or brother…” he smiles.

“Girl,” Max murmurs, offering a cheeky smirk when Arthur looks at him with widened eyes. “I have a good feeling.”

Later, when Tallara is softly snoring between them, Max reaches to grip the back of his neck and pull him into a deep kiss. Arthur makes a soft, hungry noise, wanting badly to strip and roll under his mate, to cleanse his body of all the terrible memories of being with the Chief. That would require moving Tallara and Arthur doesn’t have the heart to wake her. Instead, they part with a soft, wet noise of lips separating.

“She’s right,” Max whispers, “No one will hurt you anymore. I won’t let them.”

Arthur is frozen in place, limbs numb as he searches desperately for an explanation of how his mate could have known about his hallucination: Splendid, the road. _No one will hurt you anymore_. His mate is a known mystic, _spooky_ someone like The Dag may say, prone to sixth sense and premonitions. But this is something else entirely. “How…?” he asks.

He doesn’t know why, but his mate looks a little nervous. “You say it all the time. Crazy.”

The alpha takes his hand and tenderly kisses the palm, exactly where the knife’s handle rested. “Max…” his voice trembles. What can he say? _I thought I was going to die_. _Sometimes I don’t understand your power and I’m frightened. Now we have no one to come save us, even though the Chief was mad._ “You’re not crazy. You’re the best man I’ve ever known.”

It’s nice, for a change, to see his mate overcome instead of Arthur being the one to make tearful confessions.

Max looks as though he may say something, but Tallara stirs then and tugs demandingly at his collar. Smiling, Arthur lets the moment pass, content to watch the physical manifestation of his whole heart.


	8. Buried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something buried out there in the desert

Arvo’s arrival to the village is greeted with trepidation. The boy is a former spy, one of the Rock Rider’s agents, and at first it’s difficult for him to shed that traitorous image. Resistance is especially thick with Conch, who still sports a scar across his skull from where the riders struck him. “You should have sent him to the Citadel,” he mumbles to Arthur, brow furrowed in annoyance, but Arthur knows he’s really afraid. Conch always reverts to fear when cornered.

“We’ll need help with the babies,” is Arthur’s simple reply. And it’s true. Arvo immediately ingratiates himself to The Dag by watching Gur so she has more time to tend to her crops. Soon he’s charged with watching all the babies during nap time and not even Conch can think of a nasty thing to say about him.

That is, until the critters. They live in hair, especially lush manes like The Dag and Conch’s, and jump from skull-to-skull. That’s how they travel from Arvo to the omegas, but not the babies, thankfully not the babies, or Arthur knows Conch would have drowned poor Arvo in the water.

“Filthy canyon vermon!” he cries upon Arthur discovering the mites in his hair, and Arvo runs away to hide until Max goes off to find him.

“Hush, you’ll live,” he scolds, deliberately avoiding telling his brother the cure for such malady: chopping the hair off with a knife. The Dag is quiet, observing them from a log by the fire pit because she knows what comes next, but Conch has no idea. He weeps when they tell him, hunched over on a log as Daku rubs his back and offers words of support while Arthur slices off his hair at the roots.

Hair is very important to omegas — to everyone, really. It’s a clear sign of health and vibrance. “I’ll look sick,” Conch whimpers.

“You’re not sick. I know you’re not,” Daku murmurs, stroking the back of his neck and brushing at a wet cheek. The knife _shhhrick_ -ing as Arthur slices off another tuft. The whole right side of Conch’s skull is bald patchwork, and The Dag watches silently, knowing she’s next. Of the two of them, her hair will take much longer to grow back, but she’s always been one to deal internally with turmoil. Gadget is seated dutifully beside her, abnormally quiet, perhaps out of a sense of solidarity.

All Conch’s crying has Dog upset, who sprawls timidly at his feet, licking at the youth’s dangling fingers. Occasionally, Goat bleats in the background, and it would be comical if Conch wasn’t genuinely upset and the sounds of his whimpering didn’t hurt Arthur to his core. 

No one says it, but they’re all thinking of the Immortan. The War Boys ceremony always entailed great fanfare, including a ritual where the alphas were given their uniforms and shaved their heads and bodies. Arthur tosses another fistful or hair into the fire and even Conch hushes when the putrid smell explodes into the air. The whole Citadel would reek of burning hair, the alphas screaming like maniacs as the omegas watched from the tower. _War fodder for a half-dead old man_.

His back aches, enormous stomach bending the column of Arthur’s spine. Occasionally, Conch rests his ear against the swell and listens to the baby thrash and kick. Arthur flicks at his skull, watching another critter sail in an arc and land in the flames. _No where to hide_ , he thinks, as the knife _shhhrick_ s another thick wave. Conch has beautiful hair, and he can’t help admiring it as he slowly crops it from the crown. “It’ll grow back,” he whispers encouragingly, offering a weak smile of support to Daku, who looks so worried that it’s almost endearing. 

He glances across the village, but Max and Arvo are still no where to be found. His mate is a wise man, so most likely he’s taken the boy to a remote location to shave his head clean before returning home. No need to have Arvo awkwardly sit with the victims of his poor hygiene. Arthur carefully runs the blade around Conch’s scar, frowning at the jagged lines shaped like a V. He leans forward to toss more hair into the fire and glances at his brother’s face. No longer crying, but occasionally sniffling. 

“Gadget, tell us a story,” Arthur requests.

The alpha slowly looks up, dazed, blinking as though waking from a dream. “Ah, I was just thinking, actually. About the hair. The War Boys’ hair. Did you know Immortan used to bag it and sell it in Bartertown?” This interests Arthur, who pauses the task to glance over in surprise. Conch shifts too, and he knows his brother is also curiously watching the alpha. “It was used to stuff pillows and blankets.”

“But he burned it,” Conch insists, remembering, like Arthur, the awful smell.

“Some of it,” Gadget agrees, “But not most of it. I know this because I joined a pirate crew from Bartertown for something of a rogue operation,” here he offers a saucy smirk to The Dag, proud of his former young and brazen self. Her pink lips slowly curve. Arthur resumes cutting hair. _Shrrrick_. “We thought there was gold and jewels in the bags. Back then, we heard all kinds of mad stories about the king’s Citadel. Gold flowing in streams, rubies the size of your head, things of that nature.” _Shrrrick_. “We attacked some of the War Boys as they approached Bartertown. But…” he begins to laugh, “Imagine our faces. Bags of hair!”

 _Amazing,_ Arthur thinks, _He owned everything: water, our bodies, Max’s blood, the War Boys’ bodies and hair. All of it. Every wretched inch._

The Dag grins. “You would have been happy to find my hair in there.”

This sobers Gadget. “Oh, ay. I would have given good money for yours.” He extends a hand, meaning to tuck a flaxen strand behind her ear.

“Don’t touch her,” Arthur advises, even though he’s been doing nothing but touching Conch. That’s different, though. He has to. But the story reminds him of something the Rock Rider Chief said. “Were there underground shops? Buried in the desert? I heard the Immortan got his supplies there.”

Gadget nods. “I know the place. Could be buried again though, for all I know.”

Arthurs hums thoughtfully, having passed the equator of Conch’s skull, nearing the far temple. The omega turns his head to make cutting easier. His cheeks are now dry, having accepted reality. _Shrrrick._

“What’s there?” Daku asks, blue eyes blazing with curiosity.

“Nothing Bartertown doesn’t have,” the proud native responds.

Arthur smirks and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that, plus medicine. There’s a pharmacy.”

The information secures Daku’s attention, the alpha leaning forward while purring: “Now, that _is_ interesting.”

When he’s finished, Conch walks to the water, strips, and bathes to make sure the critters are truly gone. Arthur chops The Dag’s hair next, a considerably less dramatic affair, his sister quiet as she watches the long strands burn in the flames. Gadget watches with a grave but determined expression, as if imagining all the funny stories he plans to tell his mate in order to distract her later. Splashing steals Arthur’s attention, and when he glances over his shoulder, he sees Conch wrapped in linens, crouched at the lip of the water, gazing miserably at his own reflection.

Daku sees him as well and stands with a sigh, lumbering down to meet his mate.

“Safe?” he asks, gently touching the wet, cool back of Conch’s crown. Cropped hairs graze his palm and he smiles when the youth sullenly gazes up at him. 

“My head looks big,” Conch sighs.

Daku laughs and sits beside him, thoughtfully observing his face as if considering the statement. “Nah, still a beauty.”

Conch wrinkles his nose. “I look sick,” repeating the claim that really means _I look ugly_. Daku disagrees. Perhaps more frail and ethereal, but never ugly.

“Had to be done,” he reminds his mate, “We need you ready…” He casts a glance back to the pit where heavily pregnant Arthur is almost finished cutting off The Dag’s hair, “For the delivery.” 

The mention of his brother’s baby makes Conch’s chest throb and he gingerly touches one of his breasts, which is swollen with milk. If he waits too long, he’ll leak through the linens. “I have to feed Bindi.”

Daku nods and stands, offering a bandaged hand.

 

* * *

 

“The Dag is cooking second meal,” Arthur announces upon entering the hut. To his relief, Arvo isn’t inside with Max. His mate has no doubt shaved the boy’s head by now, but he still doesn’t want the child clamoring around and touching their things. Instead, Max is crouched in front of Tallara, making a small wooden horse gallop across the sheets. Dog watches with an intense gaze, tail thumping in excitement as he occasionally whimpers and barks at the tiny inanimate creature. “If you can manage to eat with the stench,” he adds, walking to the stand to place his knife back inside its sheathe. 

His linens snag on something, maybe the stand, but no—when he glances down, it’s Max gripping the fabric, tugging at it with a playful gleam in his eyes. “I dreamt of you.”

Arthur smiles, running his fingers through the alpha’s short hair. He’s glad they didn’t have to shave Max bald. For a long time, he secretly resented Joe’s grooming requirements for all his minions. He prefers Max in his natural state: stubble-covered jaw, the chest’s dusting, tapering along his stomach into the nest between his legs. The hair locks in his scent and feels nice rubbing against Arthur’s cheek. “What was the dream?”

“You were naked,” Max whispers, as though Tallara knows what they’re talking about. She’s more enamored with the toy anyway, gazing longingly as her father waves it through the air. Max dips close and kisses his thigh. “On horseback.”

Imagining this makes Arthur snort with laughter. “Was I enormous?” He can’t fathom riding a horse in his current state. Actually, he can’t summon the image at all. He’s never ridden a horse before. He’s never even _seen_ a real horse, though there are stories of roaming tribes who ride them through the desert. 

Sometimes Max misses his jokes. The alpha earnestly replies: “Yes. You were beautiful.”

Arthur’s expression softens as he strokes the alpha’s brow. Sometimes Max’s love for his family is like a tangible thing — a warm mist that hovers just above his skin. 

“Da…” Tallara reaches for the toy, tired of waiting for her father. Max glances her way, a smile as bright as the sun spreading across his face and Arthur’s heart fills with happiness. Max adores their daughter, and he is grateful for having such a devoted mate. In their world, there are alphas who procreate to amass and maintain power (the Immortan) and alphas who reproduce out of love. The latter is truly a rare thing, a bit of a luxury. 

“Yes, my beauty. I’m here,” he says, galloping the horse up to her leg where it rests across a chubby knee.

“Want to feel the baby?” Arthur whispers excitedly, taking Max’s hand and easing onto the linens.

The horse forgotten, Tallara crawls over and drapes her curly head over Arthur’s stomach. She has a scientist’s mind, always curious, and lately she’s been obsessed with trying to hear and feel the baby move. Though he can’t see, Arthur knows she’s wearing her _extremely serious_ expression because Max is smiling and reaches to tuck a curl behind her ear. “Ba…ba…” she calls, short for _baby_. The strange thing is, this time the greeting works. The baby kicks against the hard shell, causing Tallara to squeal in delight. Wide brown eyes cast up at Arthur, who laughs and looks at Max, surprised.

“Ah, you see! Your little sister hears you.” Tallara watches him with wide eyes as he leans close and whispers: “She’ll listen to everything you say.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Arthur chastises, though it’s difficult to be cross with Max when he’s being so sweet with their first born, “We don’t know it’s a girl.”

Max chuckles and winks at Tallara, who offers a gummy smile as if together they’re sharing some great secret. 

 

* * *

 

Arvo returns hours later, a timid naked skull poking into their hut. Daku feels sorry for the boy and tells him to come inside even though his mate is ignoring him, back turned toward them as he feeds Bindi. It’s not his fault the critters travelled to their village hidden among his follicles like nefarious stowaways. “Oh..” he says, upon seeing Conch’s shaved head. He looks very much like he’d personally request to be buried in a deep hole. Daku flashes a weak smile. “I thought….I’d see if you need help…with the babies,” he stammers.

He means to make amends, and this is his only point of leverage. Arvo is a beta, so he isn’t highly valued for breeding purposes, and he’s too small to offer his labor. All he has is the ability to watch the babies. Having fallen out of their good graces, he’s probably terrified of being sent away. A child like him would only last a few hours in the desert.

Daku stretches out on the bedding and rests against the hut’s wall, glancing at his youngest as her pink lips stretch across Conch’s pale breast. 

“I’m feeding Bindi,” Conch snaps.

The boy winces and Daku adds: “He’ll be done soon, and then I’d like you to watch them so Conch can have a bath.”

His mate frowns at him. “I already washed.” 

Daku responds with a patient stare. “Quite right. Let me rephrase, Arvo. I’d like to watch my mate bathe.”

A slow blush creeps across Conch’s cheeks, a shy smile curling his lips as he begins to understand. In turn, the alpha grins, pleased the request has flattered the omega. He wants Conch to understand that he’s not attracted to him because of his hair. The omega’s appeal runs much deeper than that.

“I can do that…” Arvo quietly interjects, saying almost as an afterthought: “I’m sorry….”

Conch looks over his shoulder to the boy, a child, and Daku sees the moment the anger drains away. His mate is a father to two children, and only capable of chastising children so long before his nurturing omega instincts kick in. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t and your hair is so shiny it’ll grow back though,” the boy says in a single breath. 

Daku chuckles, climbing to his feet and clapping the boy on the back—too hard—so he ends up catching and straightening him back up. “Easy, lad. No one’s going to castrate you over some bugs.” And because the very idea inspires a wave of horror to wash across his face, Daku makes sure to wink.

 

* * *

 

The Dag and Arthur are already bathing by the time they reach the water, so Daku walks over to the piano where the other alphas are gathered under the tarp’s shade. It seems his brothers were seized by a similar desire and he greets them with a knowing smirk and nod. “Gentlemen.”

“Daku,” Gadget smiles, “Quite a nice view this afternoon.”

“Quite,” he agrees, knowing the other alpha means the naked, glistening figure of the voluptuous Dag, somehow taller now that her hair is gone with a neck curling like a swan’s, but he personally prefers the beauty on the bank who sheds the linen and flashes a saucy smile his way before submerging into the blue water. Max hums in agreement, distracted as he watches his extremely pregnant mate stand in the shallow water and wave to his brother. “Arthur should be due any day now,” he notes. Max grunts—meaning _yes, that’s correct_. Here, Daku sees an opportunity to revisit what they briefly discussed before: “We should try to find the shops. There’s medicine. Maybe supplies we can use for the deliveries and for the babies.”

His wager that Arthur has already told Max about the buried mall pays off when Max hums thoughtfully. The other alpha is considering the pros and cons of such a plan.

“You can be sure we’re not the only ones searching for ‘em,” Gadget says, leaned against the leg of Conch’s piano, peering out across the blue water. “Could be walking into enemy territory.”

Their comrade murmurs again, and Daku knows this one means Max is suddenly having serious reservations.

“We’ve been lucky,” he begins, looking to Max, “None of the omegas have gotten seriously ill or hurt during the deliveries, but infection is inevitable, and then it will be impossible to save them.”

Perhaps it’s a low blow, playing to such sentimentalities when it is Max’s mate who is next to deliver, but Daku’s intentions are pure. They have, in many ways, been very lucky. But that luck is bound to run out — it almost did with the outbreak of spots. The fact that Gadget survived is nothing short of a miracle, death no doubt prevented by the prayers of his mate. 

Max considers this, face a mask of grave concern before he nods slowly. “We’ll go,” he says, and it’s settled.

Gadget watches the water quietly, silently coming to terms with the decision. If it was up to him, they would wait until medicine trickled into Bartertown: safe, familiar ground where he could negotiate a good price for them. But they can’t afford to wait.

 

* * *

 

Bullets, portable telescope, bolt cutter, wire cutters. Gadget lays out the supplies across a tarp and then wraps them before depositing the roll into his travel pack. He leans back against his heels and considers the bag. What has he forgotten? A snap of the fingers. _Ah, rope_. The shops are buried and they may have to scale dozens of hands into the earth. He finds the coil of jute rope and shoves it into the duffel bag. 

He’s felt off lately and doesn’t know why. It’s not the illness. The black blood is gone, vanquished by the Rock Rider Chief’s medicine, which is really the medicine from the buried pharmacy. Gadget knows that. And still this trip leaves him with a queer feeling in his gut.

A rustling outside secures his attention and he grins when the flaps open, revealing The Dag. Somehow, the robbery has revealed how truly lovely her face is, perhaps because she can no longer hide behind the strands. If he wasn’t so sure the observation would earn him bitten fingers, he would cup her face and note hers is a sweet face—almost childlike in its purity. She’s breathing hard, no doubt from the excitement of swimming with her brothers, pale skin still gleaming from the water.

“Where are you going?” she demands.

“No where yet. Max wants us to make a supply run to the buried shops—“

“ _No_ ,” The Dag growls, fiercely—no surprise, given her nature—but this is the first time that Gadget has heard her angrily react to Max’s orders. He looks up, surprised, then horrified when he realizes the omega is seconds from crying. He’s never seen The Dag weep before. She shakes her head and marches over to yank the duffel bag from his hands. “Why do you always have to go? Let Daku and Max go…”

“They need me,” he points out, mildly offended she’s forgotten he is the best shot of the three alphas. The idea of them wading into enemy territory without him is absurd. 

“You were sick.”

“I’m better now.”

“You were _just_ sick!” she shouts, throwing down the swollen bag that lands with a metallic clank.

He stands quickly, mindful to slightly stoop so his head down thwack the top of their hut and grips her face, brow furrowed in concern. What’s gotten into her? She’s never like this: hysterical and selfish. “Dag…” he whispers, kissing her pink lips and a fair cheek. She grabs him violently, clinging to his neck, and his arms circle her slender waist. “What is it…?” he whispers, kissing the curve of her neck and breathing in the sweet scent.

 _Oh_.

 

* * *

 

Max tells Arthur the plan when he returns from the water and his mate processes the news in his quiet, intense way. Arthur was the one who told him the Chief and Gadget’s tales about the buried malls, so he knows this is what the omega was secretly hoping for, and yet he receives details of the plan in grave silence, most likely considering that it will be Max, not him, in the line of danger. 

He rubs the swell of his stomach while watching the alpha pack. Arthur tells him to be careful—that there are still devils in the desert and Max smiles, recalling a talk they had a long time ago. “You always said there was only one devil and he’s dead.”

Arthur runs his fingertips over the curve, past the hard distended nub of his bellybutton. “Now I believe there’s a devil inside each alpha.”

Max checks his knives and makes sure the guns are already loaded. “That include me?” he smirks, glancing up.

Nearby, Tallara slumbers on a nest of linens, thumb wedged inside her mouth.

“No…” Arthur says after a moment, “You’re different. Special. That’s why you have to be careful, Max.” 

Max doesn’t know what he means, but when he looks up, Arthur looks pale and frightened. He frowns and quickly stands, the gear forgotten, fingers wrapping Arthur’s pale biceps. The skin is cold to the touch. “Come, sit down.”

“They know you’re special,” the omega whispers, swallowing with a bit of effort once he’s seated precariously on their bedding, spine brutally curved in an effort to keep him upright agains the counterweight of his belly. Max kneels before him, cradling Arthur’s slender fingers until his eyes have cleared and he seems coherent once more. “We have to talk to them…about the crops.”

Max hums, squinting down at the soft, uncalloused expanse of Arthur’s palms. He’s no mathematician, but even Max understands they’re not growing enough food to accommodate three fully grown alphas, plus the omegas and all the babies, and now Arvo. The Dag is doing her best, but even with Arvo helping with planting seeds and Gadget redesigning the water irrigation system, they’re lagging behind. Luck has been on their side so far, but they’re one blight away from being destroyed.

The _no knotting_ rule is Arthur’s idea, and thus he’s in charge of breaking the news to the other omegas. They won’t be allowed to knot until the alphas can make it to the buried shops, where there is hopefully a pharmacy that includes things like birth control. Arthur seems sure the birth control will not have expired, and even if some of it has, there should be _something_ left—condoms, perhaps, though Max hummed unhappily at the idea of wearing a condom while rutting his mate.

Of course, the rule would be based on the honor system, but Arthur seems confident he can get the others to agree to the plan. _Otherwise, we’ll starve_ , he said to Max while they were curled together, nude and ironically knotted, beneath furs. _It’s different,_ Arthur had defensively said when Max pointed this out _, I’m pregnant. You can’t get me pregnant twice._

“We will,” he promises. “Tonight.”

A shriek from outside cuts their conversation short.

 

* * *

 

By the time they charge outside—Max charges, Arthur does his best to keep up by waddling behind him—The Dag is in the center of their camp, throwing what appears to be the contents of Gadget’s bag at his head. He does his best to duck and weave, but a small telescope collides with his clavicle and he makes a yelping wheezing sound. “Dirty mongrel!” she yells, reaching into the duffel bag and pulling out a wrench that she whips through the air and _thuds_ against Gadget’s booted foot. Max winces in sympathy. “Snake in the grass!”

“Dag!” Arthur shouts, “Stop it!”

When she reaches deep and pulls out a pistol, the three of them shout in unison: “No!”

Finally, she looks over to them and spits through clenched teeth: “I’m with child. He says he can smell it.”

 Arthur slowly approaches, gaze lingering on the silver gun. He slowly takes the weapon from his sister and sighs, touching her flushed cheek. “Oh, my love. This is happy news.”

“It’s not,” The Dag hisses, stooping close. “The crops…”

 _She knows,_ Max thinks miserably. Of course she knows. She works the closest with the food and The Dag has a sharp mind—she’s done the maths and knows they’re doomed if they carry on like this. Being pregnant means another mouth to feed.

“What about the crops?” Gadget frowns, reaching down to pick up his telescope and wrench. 

“Maybe we should have the meeting now,” Arthur suggests and Max nods in agreement.

Only when he’s sure the chances of disembowelment have diminished does Gadget approach The Dag, who begrudgingly hands over his bag so he can redeposit the gear inside. Afterwards, he leaves the bag in the sand and sighs, straightening to his full height and gazing at her with a mix of fondness and sadness. Gadget cups her face and tilts her chin up. “You have to be sweet to me. I almost died.”

The Dag scowls. “I should cut yer goolies off.”

“It’s too late, my love. The seed is planted,” Gadget grins.

Max hears this and snorts on his way to the fire pit.

Though she fights it, a slow smile finally breaks across The Dag’s mouth before she surges upwards and seals their lips together.

 

* * *

 

Arvo sleeps in The Toast and Capable’s old hut, which doubles as a nursery when he’s been on baby-watching duty, as he is during the village meeting. As a young beta, Arvo doesn’t need to be part of a conversation about rutting and knotting, even though the food shortage will affect him too. Everyone except Max and Arthur are seated on the logs by the time Daku and Conch join them, the young omega looking around nervously, probably expecting another announcement about someone else, perhaps Daku, needing to lose their hair. 

Max fidgets in front of the group, dreading the moment he’ll have to publicly speak, and Arthur stands by him to lend support (and also because he knows if he sits on a log, he’ll never be able to stand up again). His lower back throbs so he rubs his stomach in slow, comforting circles in the hopes that will distract him from the pulsating pain.

“Um…” Max begins, toeing a pile of sand by the pit, “We gotta talk about the food.”

The Dag leans forward, pointy elbows on her bare knees, chewing anxiously at the side of her thumb. Food is her terrain, so she interjects during the conspicuous pause that follows: “I could do more…with more supplies.”

“No one is blaming you,” Arthur interjects, offering a supportive smile. Max hums in agreement and Arthur continues: “You’ve done very well. But we need to be smart now that there are more babies. The truth is we’re not growing enough food to keep up with demand. We’ll be okay because The Dag will eventually be able to catch up, but in the meantime we need to establish a no-knotting policy.”

“You’re joking,” Daku scoffs.

“Why _not_ just cut my balls off?” Gadget groans, rubbing at his face.

Conch frowns, listening, and leans over to Daku to whisper: “I don’t understand…”

Eyes still rolling in his skull, Daku explains: “I can’t knot you, love. That’s what they’re saying. So we can’t make more babies.”

“Oh,” he replies, the frown deepening.

“But I’m already pregnant,” The Dag points out.

Max and Arthur share a glance. “Uh, true. So in your case, knotting is fine.”

A wave of relief washes over The Dag’s face and Gadget folds his arms, tossing a smug look Daku’s way. The eldest alpha’s face is a dark storm cloud in response. “Wait…” Conch interjects softly, “So you all get to knot because you’re both pregnant. That means we’re the only ones who can’t. That’s not fair.”

Nodding enthusiastically in agreement, Daku points to his mate as if to say: _See? Injustice!_

“It’s just for a little while,” Max points out.

“How long?” Daku asks, gruff and unamused.

Max glances at Arthur and he steps forward: “Until you go to the pharmacy. We’re hoping there will be birth control there. Pills. Maybe condoms.”

“Oh Walhalla give me strength,” Daku laughs, “I am not wearing a rubber.”

“What’s a rubber?” Conch asks.

“It’s so you won’t get pregnant,” Arthur explains.

Daku stands suddenly. “This is bloody ridiculous. I did not survive this long to deprive myself of what is rightfully mine.”

Max glances meaningfully at Arthur. They had discussed the likelihood of this being the alphas’ response. Their world is easily reduced to a principle of property: Conch belongs to Daku, and though Daku is clearly not as crazed as, say, Immortan, he does have some very strict ideas about rutting. Namely, rutting always ends with the knot, and a condom would get in the way of that. 

Sucking in a deep breath, Arthur uses his most soothing voice: “I understand, but we’re afraid the babies will starve, Daku.” The harsh phrasing inspires a momentary hush to fall over the group. Even Daku quiets in the presence of the ugly black mass—their worst fears: failure, merciless death. It’s a risky move because this is Arthur’s greatest point of leverage. If this line of logic doesn’t move Daku then there’s no where else to go. He cannot be swayed.

Max sees the flash of defiance flicker across the other alpha’s face. He wants to keep fighting. Daku won’t agree to the arrangement, and without his participation, their population control experiment will fail. But just when the man opens his mouth, probably to tell Arthur to fuck off, a whimper steals his attention.

“Starve?” Conch whispers, eyes already brimming with tears.

“No, no,” Daku soothes, walking to the log where his mate is seated to gently cradle the back of his head. The tensions bleeds out of Max’s shoulders as he watches the alpha gentle his mate, having forgotten about the battle with Arthur. “No one is going to starve.”

“Bindi’s too little. She can’t skip meals,” Conch continues, the tears carving wet paths down his cheeks, uncomforted by Daku’s confidence.

Max forgets to feel relieved when Daku’s blazing glare sets on him and Arthur. “Now you’ve scared him. Satisfied?”

Conspicuous silence. They’re not _happy_ to have upset Conch, but certainly this presents an opportunity. “It’s okay, Conch,” Arthur soothes. “The alphas will go get birth control and then you’ll be able to knot and Bindi won’t have to miss meals.” His gaze locks meaningfully on Daku. _Your move_.

The alpha smirks, shaking his head as he continues to soothingly stroke the omega’s crown and neck. “That’s right,” he agrees, gentle tone a stark contrast to the smirk dripping with malice stretched across his face. If he didn’t implicitly trust the other alpha and know his mate is highly capable of defending himself, Max would be afraid for Arthur’s safety. “We’ll leave tomorrow. It’ll be a quick trip.”

Max expresses amusement in a short burst of air expelled from his nose and casts a sidelong glance to his mate—a silent _well done_ —but his gaze lingers when he notes how pale the omega looks. Arthur is cradling his swollen stomach, swaying slightly on his feet before looking to him and saying: “I need to rest.”

 

* * *

 

Conch calms once he understands the plan, fear replaced by embarrassment. “I cry so easy…since I had Bindi,” he murmurs, and Daku doesn’t see the point in observing that the omega has always been prone to emotional outbursts. Instead, he sits beside Conch on the bedding and watches him disrobe. His mate prefers to sleep nude. Acting on an impulse, he leans forward and kisses the ridges of his spine. The fire from dinner slowly dies outside, but still casts enough light to bathe their hut, strips of orange pouring through the flap’s slits, allowing him to see the omega’s naked figure. He also sees when the youth looks over his shoulder and smiles softly, brow furrowing a bit when he asks: “So the rubber…fits over you?” he asks, glancing at Daku’s crotch.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not wearing those things. I’ll find you the pills.”

Conch rolls onto his stomach, resting his chin on Daku’s chest. “If I take the pills, can I never have babies?”

“‘Course you can. You just stop taking the pills and,” he snaps, “Just like that. Pregnant again.”

“Oh good,” Conch sighs, wiggling a bit and Daku is a weak alpha, made of flesh and bones, and can’t help but observe the lovely swell of his rear.

His hand runs down the column of his spine and helps itself to a palmful of cheek, squeezing lovingly. “You want more babies?”

Conch smiles, cheek pressed against Daku’s chest, pretty eyes cast upwards, thick lashes appealingly lowered to half-mast. “I love having your babies.”

What is an alpha supposed to say to that? He grabs the youth and rolls him, smirking and delighting in the surprised yelp he draws from Conch’s pink mouth. Daku kisses him before he makes too much noise and wakes the babies. The worst is when they’re mid-rut and one of the babies cries and Conch has to stop, leaving Daku to wait: hard, wet and cold on their bedding. Their mouths collide hard, teeth knocking, but Conch moans softly so he knows it’s okay—just the right amount of pain.

Conch’s long legs part and wrap around his waist and Daku wastes no time thrusting inside, drawing a ragged gasp from the omega’s lips. _Don’t knot him_ , he helplessly thinks as he thrusts, Conch arching and perfectly shoving back against him, rivulets running out of him to wet his thighs and Daku’s pelvis. 

“Can you…from behind?” the omega gasps, pleading for his favorite position.

 _Shred it_. Daku dives behind him so they’re spooning, grips a jagged hip bone and shoves back inside, drawing a cry from Conch that somehow doesn’t wake the babies. The youth lifts his leg, giving Daku space to thrust inside, and he grips a small breast for leverage, rutting roughly, teeth sinking into Conch’s shoulder to stifle his own grunts and moans. _Don’t knot him_. The breast bounces between his fingers, pink nipple hard and grazing his palm, and he releases it to grip between Conch’s thighs and stroke him.

“Please, please,” Conch breathily chants and Daku knows what he’s asking for. He wants the knot, even though they just had this conversation—even though Max and bloody Arthur have given them direct orders not to do this very thing. Despite all of that, Conch still wants it because he loves Daku and loves having his babies and it feels good and _fuck_. “Please,” he moans again, undulating his hips and squeezing him with his internal muscles.

Daku swears and thrusts hard. _Stop that_. He grips the back of Conch’s neck, bends him forward and the omega submissively bows, moaning happily. “I can’t,” he gasps, even though he knows he _could_. He could defy Max’s orders. He could knot Conch and get him pregnant again because that’s his right. He’s too close. He can’t be expected to make a rational decision when a wet, writhing omega is bouncing on his cock and begging for it.

“Yes you can,” Conch gasps, reaching down to stroke Daku’s sac. “I’m yours. I’m yours.” He’s babbling now and Daku shoves away his hand because that will _definitely_ make him come, which is the omega’s plan.

“Stop it,” he growls, fucking Conch hard so he won’t be able to talk. Their flesh frantically collides, Conch’s words turning to hysterical hiccups until he comes across Daku’s fingers.

He pulls out quickly, ignoring when the omega cries, “No,” and rolls Conch onto his stomach. “No,” he miserably groans again when he understands what Daku is doing, pressing the omega’s cheeks around his cock so he has friction to thrust against without penetrating him.

“Quiet,” he grunts, even though he hates this too and would love nothing more than to bury himself to the hilt inside Conch’s warmth. Without the omega’s natural tightness, the knot’s growth is painful, robbing them both of biological pleasure that is supposed to occur in this instance. Daku does his best to squeeze the swollen length until finally he comes across Conch’s back, the omega whimpering in disappointment, and he collapses onto the bedding, face flushed and breathing hard, maddeningly, infuriatingly unfulfilled.

He knows Conch is crying when the youth sniffles and Daku touches his cheek and feels the damp flesh. Knotting is important for alphas, but it’s essential for omegas. Right now, all types of mad thoughts are swimming through Conch’s brain: Daku hates him. Daku doesn’t want him anymore. Even though such thoughts are irrational and he knows it’s a population control issue. “I love you,” he whispers and Conch grabs him, arms looped around Daku’s neck, desperately clinging in a way that makes the alpha’s chest tighten.

He holds the youth tightly, stroking his back, using the linens to clean his rear. “I hate this,” Conch whispers, once he’s calmed down a bit.

Daku chuckles fondly and kisses the omega’s warm, wet face. “I’ll fix it. Tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur skips dinner, which means Max skips dinner because he refuses to leave his mate. They spend the evening and night curled up on the linens. The only disruption is Arvo popping in and out of the hut to bring Tallara food and spend some time playing since her parents are incapacitated.

“Da…da,” she chants, asking for Max or Arthur—maybe both.

“He’s sleepy,” Arvo explains.

For the first time, Max is glad the boy joined their tribe.

The contractions begin in the middle of the night, Max waking with a start when he hears Arthur gasp and feels the omega’s spine curl as he bends into the pain. “Okay, okay. Shh,” Max soothes, rolling him onto his back and touching the hot, smooth expanse of his brow. 

“Da…” Tallara calls from her dark corner.

“Hey beauty,” Max whispers, “Baby is coming.”

“Max…” Arthur croaks, squirming in an effort to hike up the linens. Max glances between his legs to try and see what the omega is trying to show him, but it’s too dark, so he touches the warm space between Arthur’s thighs and feels wetness. The water broke. Baby is coming _very_ soon. Unsurprising. The more an omega has babies, the quicker they come.

He kisses Arthur’s brow and hurries from the hut, making his way in the total darkness by counting the steps—first to the left, to get Conch. He crouches by the flaps and whispers the omega’s name, not wanting to wake the whole village just yet, but also knowing charging into Daku’s hut would be unwise. If he’s anything like Max, he sleeps with a knife and gun nearby and his body is prone to acting before his mind has a chance to catch up.

Rustling a moment later and Conch emerges with a lit candle. Smart. “Baby?” he asks blearily. Max grunts in confirmation and he stifles a yawn. “Get Arvo. I’ll need help.”

He counts the steps to the right, past Gadget’s hut, six more steps to Arvo’s, and pushes past the flaps. Max fears no pup, but especially the timid Arvo, who would wet himself before he ever thought of attacking a grown alpha. “Wake up,” Max grunts, shoving at the boy’s back with his boot. He feels bad for being gruff a moment later when the boy asks:

“Is Arthur okay?”

Max hums. _Yes_. “Baby’s coming. Bring candles.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Max and Arvo return to the hut, Conch has set up a delivery station, including a stack of clean linens, a bowl of water, and about a dozen lit candles stationed around where he’s kneeling so he can see what’s happening. “Coming fast,” he says, looking up to Max. “You should take Tallara and wait outside.”

“Max..” Arthur whispers, brow soaked in perspiration, hair matted to his forehead. The alpha crouches by him and takes his hand. “This doesn’t change the plan. You should leave tomorrow. Get the supplies.”

He smiles faintly. Typical Arthur. Still making plans. Max means to tease him about it, but just then another contraction tears through his body and Arthur cries out. “Da…” Tallara calls with a worried face from her bedding. Max kisses Arthur’s brow, says he loves him, and goes to gather their daughter.

“Baby’s coming,” he says in a light tone, but the little girl’s brow is still wrinkled in concern. _Da_ , she calls again. 

Arthur does his best to school his features into a serene expression when he says: “I’m okay. I’ll see you soon.”

Max pauses before leaving when he sees Arvo kneeling beside Conch, inspecting the area to make sure it’s clean. He looks very young. He _is_ very young. No more than a child bringing Max’s youngest into the world. Conch notices he’s still there and gestures towards the flaps. “Go.”

* * *

 

The baby comes quickly, quicker than Tallara, easier too—or maybe Conch is just better at deliveries now. Arvo helps, expertly holding the linens to catch the screaming baby when it comes at the end of Arthur’s tenth big push. He scoops the gunk from her lips, cuts the cord, and cleans the child before Conch has to instruct him, and he watches as Arvo swaddles the baby. “Very good,” he says, and means it. The candlelight is minimal, but he sees the boy’s face glow from the praise. While Arvo tends to the baby, Conch deals with the afterbirth and then soothing a babbling, delirious Arthur who is asking questions about his newest daughter. “She’s a beauty. You and Max did good,” he says after cleaning his brother and gathering the soiled sheets.

“Conch…” Arthur croaks, “Thank you.”

He kneels beside the bedding and kisses Arthur’s brow. “Rest now…”

Needless advice because his eyes are nearly shut, but he glances past Conch, to Arvo’s back, as the boy sings quietly to his daughter. “Be nice to him.”

Conch offers an annoyed expression, but really he feels badly for yelling at Arvo about the mites. He’s a good, sweet child. A victim of circumstances, like all of them. “I’m always nice,” he mumbles, ignoring Arthur’s knowing smirk before he falls asleep. He watches him slumber for a bit before standing with the linens bundled in his arms. “Arvo…” he begins quietly. “Let’s go show Max his daughter.”

 

* * *

 

Max is smiling like a fool, showing off the bundle to the alphas as Conch holds Tallara so she can inspect her sister. “Isn’t she pretty?” Conch prompts, but Tallara looks more concerned than enthusiastic. 

“Well done, Max!” Gadget crows, stopping just short of clapping the alpha on his back.

The sky is orange and pink at the horizon where the sun is rising. In a few hours, they’ll need to leave for the supplies pickup, but Daku worries Max won’t want to leave his new baby. And they _have_ to leave today because otherwise he’ll have to wait to knot Conch. He leans close to get a look at the girl: red, wrinkled face, eyes angrily pinched shut as if resenting her place in this cruel world. Daku supposes transitioning from the warm safety of Arthur’s womb to the brutal desert must be a traumatic affair.

“Welcome to the village,” he mumbles, and Max’s happy expression momentarily extinguishes his anxiety.

“She doesn’t cry. It’s so eerie,” The Dag observes.

“Already happy,” Gadget remarks, ever an optimist.

Once the rest of the village meets Max’s daughter, he disappears back into the hut and is in there for about an hour. During that time, Gadget begins to ready some of the newer bikes they took with them after the raid on the canyon, far superior vehicles to their old ones, all with better shocks and breaks. When he observes the other alpha strapping his pack to one of the bike backs, Daku begins to ready his own gear. Conch discovers him in their hut after returning Tallara to her parents. “It’s still on?” he asks, surprised.

Daku shrugs. “As far as I know. Max hasn’t said otherwise.” He glances at the sleeping bundles. “You’ll be alright?”

The youth kneels and helps him arrange the supplies before Daku rolls the linen and places it inside his pack. “Don’t worry. Larrikin will be here,” and he knows that’s true. Between Arthur and The Dag, Conch is well protected, as are the babies, and this supply run is _for them_. Yet there’s a nagging pull at the back of his mind that reminds a good alpha doesn’t leave his mate, especially with two small babies.

He grips Conch by the back of the neck and drags him forward. “I’m doing this for us,” he purrs.

“I know,” he smiles sweetly, lifting his chin so they can embrace.

 

* * *

 

The custom of departure, as dictated to Arvo by Conch: their entire village gathers by the bikes, even the babies, the older ones positioned on a linen so they can observe their fathers leaving, the younger ones held by the omegas. “Won’t they cry?” he asks Conch.

He shrugs. “They’ll know they’re leaving anyway. It’s more for the alphas.”

Arvo understands that. They had a similar tradition in the Canyon. Before battles, all the omegas would gather and wave white bits of clothing, linens, handkerchiefs, whatever they could find. It was meant to make the alphas feel like they had the full support of the canyon people behind them, and they would return as heroes. This is a much smaller, more modest affair, and yet when Max smiles and waves at Arthur and his daughters, Arvo can tell the alpha is pleased they are the last things he will see before revving the engine and pulling away from the huts and the miracle of water.

 

* * *

 

The silence that was once uncomfortable and riddled with anxiety is now a comfortable truce among three men. They ride in silence, pause to make repairs in silence, oftentimes eat in silence until all the nothingness becomes too much for Gadget, who will share a story or six over the campfire flames. Daku and Max have begun to weather these periods in a good-natured, even fond, way. If Gadget can accommodate their mute natures, they can occasionally tolerate his loquaciousness.  

“You only get so many days to make some noise,” he says when Daku teases him about it.

They ride into the salt, past the Citadel, past Bartertown, into the territory of Max’s crude, cloth map where there are no markings because there is nothing out there. Except, there is a tale that says there _is_ something, buried so deep only Immortan Joe and his closest advisers knew about it. He knows Furiosa is unaware of its exact location. Not even he and Daku know where they’re going, but they follow Gadget, trusting until on the third day of riding he stops and dismounts. Only when he kicks down the stand and offers a wide, dopey smile over his shoulder do he and Daku dismount as well.

“Here?” Daku asks, the first utterance in over fourteen hours.

“Ay, brother,” Gadget crows, crouching by a sand dune.

Max doesn’t understand until he walks over and stands behind him. There is a hole, no wider than a broad-shouldered alpha, entirely invisible from only a few hands away. “Glory me,” Daku gasps, eyes wide. “How do you keep track of where it is?”

“It’s a star, see?” Gadget says, waving his hand to a series of sand dunes surrounding them, each one at the point of an imaginary star, and in the center the hole. “Get the rope.”

Gadget stays up top because he’s the heaviest and can serve as a secure anchor as the others slowly lower into the hole. It’s a terrifying arrangement, and Max wishes he had gone first as opposed to watching Daku descend. Gadget leans backwards to support the weight, rope swaying and jarring as Daku plunges and plunges for what seems like forever until the rope finally goes slack and Gadget almost collapses forward. 

“You’re next, boss.”

He tries to summon memories of his most recent dream: Arthur, naked and beautiful on horseback, as he clings to the rope, wraps his legs around the hemp and inches down. Immediately, Max understands why it took so long. Dropping too quickly will burn his palms, so he descends hands at a time, pinching the rope with his boots in an attempt to find some traction. The light disappears almost immediately, leaving nothing but Max’s heavy breathing and the feel of too-flimsy rope. 

Mad thoughts penetrated his mind: he died on the trip here and this is purgatory, lost in darkness, falling without destination forever.

But then he collides with the floor and nearly topples over—would have fallen—were it not for Daku’s strong hands catching him. “Easy brother,” he whispers, pulling out a torch and turning on the light. A grave security violation, but they have no choice. Otherwise, it will be impossible to see in this place. _This place_. Max thinks to look where Daku is pointing the light and immediately sees a fractured concrete structure and a gate. Are these the shops?

“Glory me…” he repeats as Max fumbles to pull the pack off his back and find the other torch.

They walk slowly down a long corridor that is lined with similar gates, his feet uneasy, for the first time ever walking on something that is not sand or rock. It’s a smooth, shiny material. When Max pauses to look into the window, he sees racks of clothing lined with dust. “I can’t believe it,” he mumbles, almost laughing. Daku taps his shoulder and points into the next store where there is some kind of plastic man dressed as a real man—dark trousers Max would recognize anywhere. The War Boys’ uniform. “I don’t believe it,” he says, the deliriousness too much, finally manifesting in bubbling laughter.

But Daku is laughing too. “Look, they were on sale.” Max can’t read the sign, but there is a plaque beneath the plastic man with markings, and he believes the other alpha. They hunch over, letting the laughter come until they can once again catch their breath.

The next shop sobers Daku and at first Max doesn’t know why. Only when he steps closer does he understand. The ceiling is glowing. Actually, a single yellow orb is glowing. “What is that?” Max frowns, instinctively reaching for his pistol.

“A lightbulb. They have electricity. There must be a generator.”

Throwing down his pack, Daku rummages inside and pulls out bolt cutters. Max peers through the glass again. Why does Daku want to go inside? For the lightbulb? “Later,” he grunts. “Medicine first.” They can get Daku’s lightbulb on the way out.

The alpha shoots him a funny look. “That _is_ medicine, Max. See the shelves? All the medicine we’ll ever need, brother.” Max frowns and looks again. It’s just a bunch of white boxes lining the shelves. _That’s_ medicine? He always thought…well, it would somehow look grander. Like when he and Arthur found the water. “Maybe they’re using the generator to run a refrigerator. Some medicine needs to be kept cold. They could have vaccines in there.”

He doesn’t understand some of the technical jargon, but grasps the overall sentiment. They need medicine. Gadget almost died from spots. The babies are too weak to fight off major illnesses. This is their only chance. Daku places the cutters to the lock and has only just pinched them closed, bracing for the mighty squeeze needed to fracture the metal when an explosion of light paralyzes them.

“On the floor! Get the fuck down!” Daku’s chest blooms with a dozen pins of red light, stunning Max because he’s never seen anything like it before. Aliens surround them, figures shaped like men, but with glowing eyes. “Get down or I will shoot you dead!” a gruff voice demands and grabs Max by the jacket, ripping downward, his nose and cheek colliding with the floor.

All the men have guns, but they are unlike any weapons Max has ever seen—almost plastic in appearance—with a thick black butt by the trigger. Their uniforms match, including the helmets, and Max finally understands the eyes aren’t really eyes when one of the soldiers steps forward and flips up goggles to reveal a pair of shining dark human eyes. Almost seems friendly, but Max knows better.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” 


	9. The Green Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The soldiers don't know who they're messing with

The man with the dark eyes smirks. Beside him, Daku struggles on his stomach, a heavy boot buried into his back.

“We came to barter for medicine,” the other alpha spits.

“Interesting, because we only had that arrangement with the Immortan, and last I heard, he bit the big one.”

He strains to look up but the lights attached to the guns blind him. “Who are you?” Max asks.

“Ah..” the man removes his helmet, cradles it under an arm and steps forward. “Sergeant first class Daniel Tompkins, third generation army of the Pine Gap Tompkins.” Blank stares. He smirks. “Satellite tracking station, Northern Territory, run by an empire called the United States in the old world. I am the great grandson of the last man who ran the base, relocated down here when we ran out of supplies, settled these shops. You are currently in our territory, boys.”

A menagerie of nonsense words Max doesn’t understand. 

“You have electricity,” Daku mumbles, stunned. Maybe he understood some of what the man is saying.

Shuffling. When Max looks back, there are a group of pale children watching them, goggles flipped up onto their foreheads. They must help them see in the darkness. 

“We got a lot of things, none of which are yours. Comprende, amigo?”

“You did business with the Immortan. Why not us?” Max asks, shifting on the floor. A boot violently collides with his shoulder, pinning him in place, and he grunts.

Daniel makes a soft shushing noise with his mouth, like he is an unruly child in need of calming. When he squats in front of the alpha, Max offers the scowl he learned from Arthur. Secretly, he’s glad the man is closer now because he’ll be able to read his lips. Maybe. He stupidly left his glasses back at the village thinking this would be a quick in-and-out operation. “See them?” He gestures to the eerily silent children: pale, flaxen-haired. They remind him of miniature Dags. Cold fingers of dread inch up his spine as he nods. “Canyon people. We found them wandering in the desert three days ago, babbling an awfully interesting story about the she-alpha killing the Rock Rider Chief and, uh, something about a small village by a lake, was it?” He looks to the other men for confirmation but no one says anything. “Would you happen to know anything about that?”

He and Daku remain silent. Max imagines their pristine water, the omegas bathing, Goat languidly munching on a clump of grass, Tallara crawling in their hut, giggling. Paradise. Only possible because of their secret. 

They haven’t even named the baby yet. 

“Only water I’ve seen is at the Citadel,” says Daku.

The leader places his helmet on the strange ground that, upon closer inspection, shines beneath the light and is embellished with a pattern of diamonds. He looks over to the children. “Are these the men?”

Eventually, one of the children, a boy no older than Arvo, steps forward. His bare feet are filthy, hair hanging in thick tangles around his narrow face. “Y-yes. They were with the she-alpha.” Max bares his teeth, hoping to frighten the child, but the boy knows he’ll be protected by the heavily armed soldiers. “She said we had a choice: join her or die, but she eats the weak who can’t contribute at the Citadel—“

“Traitorous lies,” Daku growls.

“…So we decided to walk to Bartertown instead,” he softly concludes.

Of course the Rock Rider Chief filled the heads of his people with lies about his enemies. A cannibalistic queen. What could be more frightening to a little boy? If Max wasn’t currently cycling through nightmare scenarios about what may happen to their village, he would have felt sorry for the child. But Daniel isn’t finished just yet. “And these are the men from the village?”

The boy nods. “Some of them. There are more. Omegas too. They kidnapped one of my kin.”

 _Arvo_. No point in saying he came willingly, even begged to join their clan. These men already think he and Daku are liars, and they _are_ lying about the existence of water. 

“And you know for a fact there’s water?”

“Yes, sir. The Chief saw it with his own eyes. Some of our riders did pick-ups.”

“He’s lying,” Daku grunts.

Daniel ignores him. “Interesting,” tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth, “How many alphas?”

Here the boy hesitates. He doesn’t really know, but he’s enjoying seeming like a valuable asset to the older men. Slowly, a small hand extends as he points at Max and Daku. “They were always with another one. A tall alpha.”

Swiftly, Daniel looks over to the nearest soldier, nods once, and the man runs down the dark corridor through which he and Daku entered. _Gadget_. Max grunts and attempts to leap to his feet, but Daniel kicks him in the center of his chest with the flat part of his boot, sending him sprawling onto his ass. 

“Run!” Daku suddenly shouts, his voice a startling eruption that echoes down the hallway. “Run! Run!”

The butt of a rifle cracks across his skull and Max winces in empathy. The vicious strike knocks out the alpha who remains limp even as two soldiers hook his arms and drag him down the corridor. Max is next, only thrashing a little before an alpha pointedly sticks the barrel of a gun in his face and he understands. These men need information from him, but they will not mourn his death. A cacophony of gunfire. They know Gadget is with them. They may have killed him, their only lifeline to home. 

Max hears himself groan: a desperate, broken animal.

Boots dragging and squeaking on linoleum, men haul them past the pharmacy, past the store with the War Boys’ uniforms, to a small empty room with white walls, ceiling, and floor. It’s been gutted, repurposed as a jail cell, and as soon as the men leave them and shut the door, the light all but vanishes. The only strips filter in through the cracks around the heavy door, casting the outline of a white rectangle on the far wall, one of the vertical lines bisecting Daku’s bloody face. The wound is flowing and Max realizes he could die if he doesn’t receive medical attention. He slides out of his jacket and balls up the fabric, pressing it to the alpha’s skull in a meager attempt to stop the bleeding.

 _Almost out of time_.

Two men down, imprisoned in an underground lair, ages from anyone who cares about him. Max feels terribly alone until Daku’s head lolls back and a blue eye peers up at him. _Not dead yet_. The Bullet Farmer bred tough men. He tries to part Daku’s short hair to see if the skull is fractured, but the alpha winces and pulls away. “Max…do you know who those men are?”

None of the words Daniel said made sense to him, but…”They’re soldiers.” He gathered that much.

“Not just soldiers…” His words are slurred and Max wonders if he should tell him to stop talking. “Before the world fell, there were different countries, like we have different towns and villages now, only much, much bigger. There were men from a different country stationed in the northern territory. Violent men. Very skilled men…” He trails off again and Max sits back on his heels, queasy with dread. “These blokes must be the second or third generation of those soldiers that were left behind.”

“We can take them,” Max murmurs, not sounding or feeling particularly confident.

Daku smirks. “You saw their guns.”

Max is quiet for a moment. “Why would the Immortan allow them to stay here?”

“Mutually assured destruction.” And because that doesn’t make sense to Max, he patiently waits for Daku to continue. “Immortan had the water, they have the guns and supplies. Fair trade. These are no War Boys. These are highly-trained mercenaries, Max. Armed to the bloody teeth.” He sways slightly and a bloody streak smears the wall behind him. “I need to lay down,” he rasps.

“No, no, no,” Max whispers, catching his head before it can collide with the floor, but Daku’s eyes are closing, and then Max shouts until he’s hoarse, until the soldiers come to shut him up.

 

* * *

 

Gadget has counted three buzzards and six puffy white clouds, and now there is nothing more to count. The rest is just sand—endless sand. He can’t even see the dot of Bartertown on the horizon. Bored, he begins to hum softly under his breath, not knowing the name of the song but it’s one he learned from The Dag. He’s straddling his bike, waiting, and smiles as he thinks of his mate. _Baby on the way_. That’s a first for Gadget. He’s never spawned, not even with any of the Bartertown omegas. Alphas always joke (but are also prideful) about the fact that they probably have miniature versions of themselves wandering around the desert, but he knows for a fact that there is only one Gadget. Until now.  

He inflates with a renewed sense of purpose. Is this what being a father is like?

The rope is tied to the front of his bike, but it’s still slack. He counts to one hundred in his head, climbs off the bike, and slowly approaches the small hole in the ground. It’s been too long. _Or maybe they’ve found a large booty and are struggling to carry it_. Could he scale down the rope? Would the bike hold his weight? Better not risk it. If the rope broke or the bike fell in after him, Gadget could be seriously hurt or killed, and either way they’d be trapped underground. 

 _Patience, blockhead_ , says the voice of the ancient, leathery Bartertown mechanic who first trained him.

So he waits, but remains crouched by the entrance, occasionally stealing a peek into the darkness. He could shout—just to find out what’s going on—but perhaps the alphas aren’t alone. It’s a disturbing thought, one that makes Gadget reach for the pistol holstered at his hip. Footfalls far away, frantic shuffling, laborious breathing. _They’re back!_ Gadget leans forward and grins, sucking in a breath in preparation to shout _What took so long_? Then he hears it, unmistakeable, Daku’s voice: _Run. Run, Run, Run._ His brow furrows in confusion for a split second, then _pop pop pop,_ a bullet whizzes past his skull and nicks his right ear. 

He shouts and falls backwards, a hand flying up to cradle his head, the fingers coming back red. His ear pulsates in pain, but it’s not a severe wound. A near miss. “Oy!” he roars, jumping to his feet and pacing wildly by the entrance. Who’s having a go? Instinctively, he reaches for the gear bag and shoves everything inside, but he doesn’t run. Not yet.

“You’re with these men, I presume?” a flat, deep voice shouts from the darkness. The bottom of his stomach falls out. _Not alone_. He’s overcome by a brief, vivid hallucination that both alphas are dead—that he’ll have to return to the village and tell Conch and Arthur what’s happened. “I’ll take that as a yes,” the voice continues. “That was a warning shot, friend. If you tell anyone we’re here, if you run off to the Citadel to enlist the she-alpha’s help, we’ll kill both of them. Comprende?”

Gadget opens his mouth, unable to think of a reply. He casts a helpless look to the horizon and nothing stares back. “ _Understand_ , friend?” the voice asks again, agitated by his perceived resistance.

“Yes,” he calls into the black hole.

“Good. We’ll release them if they cooperate.”

That’s it. Just like that, the voice, and its owner, vanish. “Wait!” Gadget shouts, but it’s too late. The strangers have no further use for him. Briefly, he’s seized by the wild notion that he should chase them into the darkness. But then what? The men are clearly armed. They’ll shoot him dead. Rule number one of combat is never fight the fight on the enemy’s terms and in the enemy’s territory. A warm, wet dollop plops against his neck and when he touches his ear again, the shell throbs in objection. He’ll need stitches and Bartertown is half a day’s journey away, but he can make it before sun fall if he leaves right now.

Gadget glances at the other bikes. He hates to leave them unattended but doesn’t have a choice. Max and Daku are, for the moment, alive. He’ll go to Bartertown, get stitched up, and figure out things from there. He pulls up the rope and unties it from the bike, stuffing it into the bag and strapping it to his back. Gadget peels away from the mall’s entrance, grip fierce on the handlebars as the bike jerks and dips across the harsh landscape. His head pulsates during each jostle, but he only speeds faster, the dark thoughts about what will happen if he doesn’t ride hard chasing at his heels like ravenous dogs.

 

* * *

 

Max shouts until the men come, and he braces for a beating, but at the last second shouts: “He’s dying! He needs staples,” and the men look at Daku’s cracked skull, then at each other, and leave without attacking him. 

The room is horribly quiet. When he gets on all fours and lowers an ear to Daku’s mouth, he can’t even hear the man breathing, and his ears may be broken, but he should be able to hear _something_ dammit. “Come on,” he murmurs, shaking the alpha’s shoulder, attempting to wake him. Nothing. The door grinds open, flooding the room with light, and Max scurries backwards to press his back against a wall, a hand shielding his eyes against the brutal invasion. 

“Move,” a soldier gruffly orders, so he scoots farther to the side until he’s occupying a corner.

The men gather around Daku, rolling him, secretly conversing with each other in hushed tones Max can’t hear. “What’re you doing?” he gruffly inquires, annoyed that he’s being left out of the loop and can’t understand these alphas with their strange accents. They ignore him as one of the men cleans Daku’s head wound and then pushes a stapler against his skull and presses down. The sharp pain wakes Daku instantly and he shouts, attempting to sit up, but the other alpha pins him to the floor. “Hey!” Max barks, scrambling to his feet, but not before the soldier jams two more staples into Daku’s skull.

“Relax,” he spits in Max’s direction. “You asked and we provided. The wound is closed. He’ll be fine. Just keep it clean.” He slides a small tube towards Max. _Medicine_. _To prevent infection_. Here, they have cabinets full of the stuff. He stares at the ointment, filled with rage, remembering the anxious hours spent waiting during the deliveries, constantly living in fear of infections that can so easily kill postpartum omegas. No one probably ever dies here, and they’ve been greedily hoarding their elixirs.

 _Like you’re hoarding the water_ , an unhelpful voice reminds. Why does it sound like Arthur?

He doesn’t say anything and the men leave.

 

* * *

 

White, blinding pain wakes him but only for a moment before he drops into the type of sleep demanded by bone-deep fatigue that grips and drags downward, downward until everything is darkness. He’s aware of Max: shaking him, speaking, but he can’t respond. Sleep is all there is.  

He dreams. His father, tall and strapping, planks of wood strapped to his back while trudging across the dunes, and Daku chasing after him, trying to keep up. The sun enormous in the sky, baking everything including his flesh, making it red and raw, an agonizing ache that will not fade until he becomes a man. Even then he thought his father was a god, larger than life, as big as the blazing sun taunting them from the blue sky like a child’s red tongue jutting out of its mouth.

His father is the sun, but his mother is the moon. The regulator. The one who sets the rhythm of their life like gravitational pull: holding Daku close, stroking his hair, suggesting that he run these errands with his father because it’s the only time they get to be alone together. It’s she who wakes first in the morning, she who decides when they eat, she who turns their pathetic hut into a cozy home, creating structure from nothing, shaping their lives into the appearance of normalcy. 

His father is a quiet man—more a force of nature than an alpha. Daku once saw him snap a man’s neck like a twig. The sun is why they survive.

The moon is why they live. His mother sings and braids the hair of the village girls when they’re gathered by the fire at night. Her songs inspire the drums, and then comes the dancing. This is the only time Daku smiles.

Something is wrong. He’s injured, but this sleep is different, like a grasping tentacled beast that will not release him. It takes every ounce of concentration just to open his eyes, Max’s face with the furrowed brow filling his vision. “Max…” He longs to explain what’s happening, but can barely utter the other alpha’s name. _Something is wrong_ , he thinks again, hoping to convey the concept telepathically, or perhaps with a panicked glance.

Max touches his brow with surprising tenderness and he nearly slips into the dream again, reminded of when his father stayed with him all night when he had his first fever. “Open your eyes.” Daku obeys, realizing he’s dropped off again. The alpha, his friend, leans down and considers his face with a mixture of confusion and concern. “Your eyes are strange.” The least of his worries. What he can’t explain are the chills racking his body. He’s begun to shake—little, barely perceptible tremors in his fingertips and toes—but Max sees them. “Fever,” he notes, and Daku thinks that explains why his fingertips feel so mercifully cool against the burning flesh.

 _Conch_. He shuts his eyes again and imagines the omega as he last saw him: damp flesh shimmering, smiling as he played with his brother and sister in the lake. Later, naked in their hut, wet and writhing, begging for Daku to knot him. Other times: sweet and gentle with the babies, nuzzling their soft beds of hair, cooing and inhaling their scents. The hallucinations are so real that Daku can smell them too, and touch Conch’s supple skin, stroking the back of his neck, pulling him close to kiss his silky lips. 

A flash of panic like lightning when he understand what’s happening, why his lungs can’t suck in enough air, why his skeleton is straining against the flesh. “Max…” he agonizes again, determined this time to warn the alpha. “Heat…” Max’s eyes flood with fear and he knows the man comprehends. “Get out.”

 

* * *

 

Max stands at the door and shouts until a shadow crosses the strip of light at the bottom of the door and the voice of the leader responds: “You rang?” 

“You have to let me out. He’s in heat.”

He casts a cautious glance towards Daku, who is already writhing on the floor, fingers pulling at the jacket and linen shirt, attempting to tear the fabric from his overheating body. Alphas go mad when they’re in heat and in the presence of other alphas. It will take no more than an hour for Daku to slip into a full frenzy. He’ll tear Max apart. All they’ll find afterwards is a stain where he used to be standing.

Worryingly, the initial answer is conspicuous silence. Then: “Well, that’s an unfortunate situation.”

Max presses his cheek to the cool door and attempts to see through the doorway, but all he can see is a sliver of the opposite corridor wall. “You’re just gonna let him kill me?”

“Not if you tell me where the water is.”

His fingertips slide along the door, pressing into the metal until the flesh is white. He pretends it’s Daniel’s throat, the fingers circling his neck, crushing the veins and fragile bones, reducing them to powder and mush. “We keep telling you. Don’t know where the water is.”

“Your lips aren’t dry and cracked. Both of you are clearly hydrated, I know you’re not from the Citadel, and I can smell the omegas and children on the both of you. So why don’t we cut the bullshit, hm, friend? You are alphas from a village, probably located within spitting distance of the canyon, but for whatever reason my scouts can’t find your little oasis. Must be cleverly hidden.”

 _Not really_ , Max thinks miserably. Perhaps some good fortune with dune placement and a slight dip in the earth that hides it from scouts zipping by, but hardly an invisible fortress. He and Arthur had the luck to simply stumble across it.

 _Not luck_ , his first daughter whispers. _No such thing._

How long have the soldiers been looking for it? Why can’t they find it?

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

This time, the anger is almost palpable, radiating in thick waves through the door. “He’s gonna kill you. Smash you to pulp. You understand that. Tell me where it is and I’ll let you out.”

Max presses the back of his head to the door and watches Daku, who has turned onto his belly in an effort to squirm out of the jacket. He’s breathing heavily, groaning through clenched teeth. Vaguely, Max recalls Conch hugging the alphas goodbye before they departed. Is the omega’s scent on him? An overheated alpha brain will assume the worse—that Max has done something to his mate.

There is only one way out, but it would mean betraying his clan and endangering his mate and children.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeats, mouth numb, tongue as heavy as lead. He wonders what Daku will do when he awakes in a pool of Max’s blood. 

Dry chuckling, a laughing priest standing over Max’s grave. “Suit yourself, captain.” He watches the shadow flicker again and Daniel is gone.

 

* * *

 

Whenever the alphas are gone, the remainder of the village tends to cluster together, perhaps adhering to some preprogrammed biological impulse to protect themselves. Even Arvo is allowed to sit with them around the fire at dinner time, the babies warm little bundles in front of the logs so the omegas have a bird’s eye view of their faces and can see if any of them are in distress. Only Tallara is seated upright, oddly alert given the late hour. Arthur hopes she isn’t aware Max is gone, but judging by her longing glances across the village, she is looking for her father. 

He’s sure the only reason she hasn’t started bawling is due to fascination with her baby sister. The child keeps looking at her red face and softly uttering, “ba…ba…ba…” in greeting. She doesn’t have a name yet because there wasn’t any time for such a luxury. Arthur feels too guilty to come up with one on his own. Max needs to be here and help him select the right one like the most beautiful wild flower plucked from a field.

Dog sits closer to the huts, back straight and ears alert, staring into the darkness as if aware he’s once again in charge of guarding Arthur. The beast seems to have a preternatural ability to sense when the alphas will be away for a while, leaving the omegas and children especially vulnerable.

The Dag and Conch are seated closest to the flames, bodies chilled due to their shaved heads. Huddled for warmth, faces gaunt, they make a grim pair, and Arthur knows it falls on him to improve the group’s spirits since Gadget, the resident storyteller, isn’t with them. “Conch, you should play something,” he suggests, nodding to the piano, a dark mass on the other side of the water.

The youth considers the idea for a moment before shaking his head. “I never play when Daku is away.”

At the mention of his mate, Conch reaches down to gently stroke the crowns of his sleeping children.

“I know a game,” Arvo pipes up, dark eyes wide when the omegas look at him. “It’s an alphabet game. We take turns for each letter and name a thing we’ve seen in our lives. So if I go first, I begin with A..” he trails off, squinting at the fire, “Ants! I see ants all the time.” Arthur smiles slowly. It’s true. Small insects were some of the only survivors of the radiation poisoning, and he’s noticed more of them now, crawling around when they unearth dirt in the process of planting The Dag’s crops. Maybe it means the soil is healthy again. Arvo points at The Dag. “You go next. B…”

His sister smirks. “I see blackness.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Don’t be morbid.”

“Fine…” she replies, wrinkling her nose. “I see….babies.”

Arvo smiles, pleased with the answer. “Good! Conch, you have C, and you can’t say Conch because that’s cheating.”

For the first time all night, his brother smiles—thinly, but it’s there, curling his lips out of sheer fondness. “Okay…” he agrees, considering the question. “I’ve seen the Citadel.”

 _D is for Dunes, E is for Earrings, F is for Feathers, G is for Gold._ They carry on with the game until the flames dip low and towards the end Arthur notices Conch is slower to answer, curling forward, fingers circling his biceps to squeeze and rub the bare flesh. Arthur wonders if he’s cold and announces it’s time to take the babies inside. He’s surprised the time passed so quickly. “See? It’s a good game,” Arvo says and he smiles, affectionately rubbing the boy’s bald head. 

“We’ll watch the babies tonight. Get some rest.”

“You’re sure?” he asks. Arvo is good with the babies and he’s grown fond of watching them.

Arthur smiles and touches his shoulder, guiding the boy back towards his hut. “I’m sure. Go on now…” But he lingers, casting furtive looks at the babies until Arthur relents and sighs, “Fine. Help Conch with Rabi and then bring the baby to our hut.”

When the boy appears at his side, Conch takes a moment to acknowledge him and seems surprised. “Oh…thank you,” he murmurs, squatting to gather Bindi.

Arvo handles Rabi like glass, overly cautious as he cradles the head and lifts him from the ground. Meanwhile, Tallara is a heavy, squirming animal in his arms, thrashing because she believes herself to be a big girl who shouldn’t be carried anymore. Plus, she’s moody from not seeing Max for hours and breathing heavily which is always prelude to a crying fit. He sings softly and bounces her in his arms on the way back to the hut, desperately hoping for appeasement because once one of the babies starts crying it sets off a chain reaction, an archipelago of misery that will keep them up until sunrise.

He pauses at the entrance to watch Conch unsteadily approach his hut. The Dag is also loitering by the fire pit, gathering Gur and also watching the baby until Arvo gets back, and their gazes meet across the softly glowing embers. He nods towards Conch’s hut and she bobs her head in confirmation. She’ll check on him while Arthur gets Tallara settled. 

“Da…da…” Tallara demands, hotly scowling at Arthur as he sets her on the bedding. She assumes he’s done something to her father or chased him away.

“He’ll be home soon, beauty,” Arthur whispers, throat tightening when Max’s nickname for them slips out. He hopes soon. He hopes everything is alright. _Don’t be silly. The pick-up took longer than expected and they wisely decided to camp overnight_. The desert is a dangerous place and it was smart of them to not risk traveling in the darkness.

“Da!” she orders again, face twisted in annoyance.

Arthur smiles slightly and lays down beside her, gently stroking back the thick curls until she eventually settles beside him and sucks on her thumb. Gradually, her eyelids grow heavy, thick lashes lowered to half-mast when the hides ripple and Arvo appears with the baby cradled in his arms. When he glances back to his daughter, her eyes are closed, and he carefully climbs off the bedding. “Put her down,” he whispers, “And stay here for a moment. I need to check on Conch.”

“He’s sweating and saying things…I can’t understand him,” the young man whispers, eyes worried.

He nods, unsurprised to hear this. “Everything is alright. I’ll be back soon.”

As he exits the hut, The Dag is also leaving hers, and without uttering a word together they walk to Conch’s and slip inside. Rabi is seated upright on the bedding, whimpering fearfully as Conch thrashes in the nest, skin shimmering with newly blossomed sweat. “Shit,” Arthur hisses, rushing forward to restrain the omega before he hurts himself.

“That came on quickly,” The Dag comments, joining him by gripping Conch’s ankles and pinning them down.

The youth groans in frustration, arching his back. He moans his mate’s name and Arthur shoots a helpless look to The Dag. A full-blown heat without Daku. With the help of one’s mate, an omega can usually break a heat in a matter of a few days. Without Daku, Conch could loiter in a painful limbo state for a week. “We need to get them out of here. Put them in my hut,” he instructs, glancing to the panicked Rabi. 

The Dag leaves him to pick up the baby. The child calls for his father and Arthur flashes what he hopes is a convincing smile. “Everything’s okay, baby. Your daddy needs to sleep.” The whole while, Bindi slumbers blissfully and obliviously. Arthur envies her. The Dag dips her shorn head and slips out of the hut.

Leaving him with only the sound of Conch’s panting breath and frustrated groans. He claws at his throat and Arthur grabs his hands again, pinning them down. The omega begs for his mate, who is in locations unknown under circumstances undetermined. He makes a soft, soothing noise and strokes Conch’s skull. Without the mop of hair, sweat pours freely in rivulets down the sides of his face and across his neck. His skin is hot to the touch. “Daku…Daku…” he begs and Arthur’s heart breaks for him.

He can’t imagine being in such a vulnerable state without the protection of his mate. Even the sound of his breathing sounds painful: shallow, gulping gasps followed by groans. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats over and over, stroking the side of Conch’s burning face.

Suddenly, the youth’s eyes fly open and Arthur is struck by how they are almost all pupil now. “It’s dark….” he gasps and Arthur cradles his hand, running fingertips over Conch’s palm. _Yes, it’s dark. It’s night_. But there’s no reason to point out such things. Conch is delirious from the heat, babbling nonsense. “He doesn’t…know where he is.”

His fingers freeze, having half-traced the span of Conch’s lifeline. Arthur looks at the youth’s face, brow furrowed. “Who?”

“Daku,” he whispers. “Men…There are men.”

 _Could it be?_ Arthur scrambles higher on the bedding and cups Conch’s face, forcing his brother to look at him, but the omega is blind, eyes drifting aimlessly, rolling backwards into his skull. “What men?” Now he shakes Conch a little, the icy grip of terror making him a little crazy. _Is it possible?_ “Conch, _what men_?”

“Soldiers….” he whimpers, tears leaking from his eyes, and Arthur gently brushes them away. Another wave of agony tears through his body and he cries out, eyes pinched shut once more, and whatever temporary line he had with Daku is severed. If that’s even what it was. Arthur struggles to reconcile the hemispheres of his brain: the one side that believes such things are impossible and the other that has been cultivated and nurtured since meeting Max and becoming a disciple of his particular breed of magic.

He knows pressing the matter would be cruel, poor Conch barely enduring the current agony, so he makes the soothing sounds again and lays beside his brother to stroke his hand and forearm.

The Dag enters a moment later and casts them a wary glance before gathering Bindi. “How is he?” she asks.

Arthur props up on an elbow and looks at her. “Have you ever had visions of Gadget while you were in heat?” 

“I see his memories sometimes. Things from when he was a boy.”

“Really?” Arthur asks, surprised.

She smirks. “Why? You’ve never had em?”

He thinks for a moment and shakes his head. “I’m distracted when it happens…feels too good,” he grins.

His sister restrains a cackle and slips from the hut.

Arthur lays down and gazes at his brother’s face. A large part of him doesn’t want to believe because, if what Conch is saying is true, then their mates are surrounded by soldiers. But there aren’t any soldiers because there are no armies. Not even the War Boys were _real_ soldiers. It can’t be true, he decides, and reaches to mop a bit more sweat from Conch’s brow. It’s easier not to believe.

The Dag joins them on the bedding when she returns. “I moved Gur to your hut and Arvo is watching the babies,” she sighs, observing Conch’s current state before adding: “Why did you ask me that?”

He flashes a fatigued smile, silent solidarity because they both know they’re in for a long night.

“No reason.”

 

* * *

 

Max has never seen an alpha in heat up-close. When he’s in the state, his mind is simultaneously mush and incredibly focused, the entirety of his world shrunk to Arthur and Arthur’s body and how they feel joined together. Witnessing the heat has provided disturbing clarity: an awful, snarling beast that twists Daku’s figure into terrible contortions—painful spasms that jerk him across the floor—and he relocates to a corner where he watches and waits. 

Conflict is inevitable, death very likely. Daku is still unaware of his exact surroundings, more concerned with wrestling out of his clothes, which he manages eventually and then splays nude across the cold floor, probably momentarily sated now that the linen and leather is no longer suffocating him.

He tries not to breathe too loudly or move, anything that might alert the alpha to his presence. But this performance only buys him a handful of minutes. Eventually, Daku inhales deeply and smells him, head snapping to the side, eyes blazing as he growls and slowly moves to a crouch. Max slowly (careful…careful) raises his hands, palms outward in a sign of surrender. “It’s me—“ He doesn’t get a chance to say anything else. Daku lunges at him and Max cover his face, braced for the impact. The alpha—not Daku, something else entirely—slams into him, teeth gnashing as Max grips his shoulders in an anemic attempt to keep him at bay, but his skin is slick with sweat so it’s difficult to get a grip. Max shrinks backwards, overwhelmed by the force of the assault and the stench emitting from Daku’s pores: thick pheromones meant to lull his mate into a serene, pleasured state, but the smell makes Max want to retch. “Hey!” he shouts, switching tactics, desperately hoping someone can hear him, “Hey! Help!” He snatches his hand away at the last second, narrowly avoiding Daku’s teeth, and balls his fingers, slamming the fist into the alpha’s nose.

Daku howls as he falls backwards and Max jumps to his feet. There’s blood streaming down Daku’s face, and for a split second, he feels sorry for hitting him. But when the alpha’s head snaps up and he sets his blazing eyes on Max, the empathy evaporates. It’s then that Max truly understands deep in his bones that Daku is going to kill him. “Help!” he bellows again, boots skidding on the floor as Daku rushes again, this time clutching his throat, and slams his crown against the door. The world shakes and his vision goes dark for a second. Max claws desperately, trying to gouge Daku’s eyes, yank away his arm, but nothing works, nothing, and then he realizes his feet aren’t touching the floor. Daku is holding him above it, squeezing the air from his throat, and the world is darkening. He croaks again, a final pathetic attempt at securing help, but it’s no more than a whisper.

 _Arthur_. He shuts his eyes and tries to remember the first time he saw the omega. By the War Rig. He was bathing with the hose. 

The sound of Daku’s frantic panting fills his ears, unpleasant music, so he summons a memory of playing with Tallara, when she first learned the game of throwing things at him and Max would feign mortal wounds. He’d collapse to the ground, groaning, and go very still. Tallara laughing, crawling over, gently batting at his face until he opened his eyes. Always opening his eyes and returning to her.

But not this time. _I’m sorry, my beauty._

In the distance, he hears a child crying and thinks it must be part of the hallucination, but then suddenly men shout and he sails through the air. Max lands hard on the floor, jostled awake, and his vision returns in time to witness the chaotic scene of three soldiers fighting to subdue a raging, bloody Daku. Finally, one of them sticks a set of prongs into his side and a blue lightning bolts illuminate the room. Max watches with wide eyes, horrified and amazed because he’s never seen anything like it but also because Daku’s body violently spasms before he collapses to the floor. “Oy!” Max shouts, even though Daku was attacking him a handful of seconds ago.

“Calm down. He’ll be fine,” the man with the lightning device says, sheathing it on his belt. “We’re moving you to your own room. Tompkins’ orders.”

 _Daniel_. Daniel has saved him, but Max still feels nervous as he slowly climbs to his feet and follows the men into the hall, hesitating for a moment as he gazes over his shoulder to poor Daku, who will have to sweat through the heat on his own. Max understands how this world works where nothing is free, so it is with great trepidation he leaves behind his friend and clan member in order to follow these strangers to a new room, sanctuary provided for unknown reasons and he’s afraid he won’t be able to pay the debt collector.

 

* * *

 

By the time he reaches Bartertown, the entire right shoulder of his jacket and tunic is soaked with blood and he’s beginning to feel lightheaded. It’s not a severe wound, but he’s been riding for a long time, and even a small cut unable to close on its own will eventually bleed an elephant dry. He needs help, so Gadget pushes his bike through the bustling crowd (no one looks twice at a Road Warrior who is covered in blood) until he locates the doctor he used to visit when he was a resident. “Hope the other fella looks worse,” Stitch remarks, bushy brows waggling as he readies the needle. 

“He will soon,” Gadget promises and sucks in a deep breath when the needle pushes through his ear.

The bullet almost took off a chunk of shell, but Stitch seems confident the body will heal, reincorporating the flesh and cartilage into something that will resemble Gadget’s old ear. “And if it looks different, well, then you have a story, ay?” Gadget offers a thin smile. “What brings you back to these parts? Got a little omega waiting for you?” Stitch remembers him from his youthful days when he was one of the most popular alphas swaggering around Bartertown.

“Nah, I have a mate now,” he grins, deliberately keeping the details vague. He won’t share The Dag’s name or the location of their new home. Stitch is a friend, but he’s also an old man who sometimes speaks without thinking.

“Walhalla praise!” he howls, laughing and shaking his head as if the idea of Gadget being mated is unfathomable. The doctor dabs his throbbing ear with some clear, sticky ointment, the acerbic smell summoning memories of youthful scraps that ended in scraped knuckles and broken noses followed by a visit to Stitch. Back then, he never charged them, but today Gadget produces a bag and offers one of The Dag’s tomatoes. He’d been saving it for a snack later, but the joy that lights Stitch’s face makes it worth the sacrifice.

“Where in the world did you get this?”

“Citadel. I just visited,” he lies. 

“Ah, the she-alpha.” Stitch leans close. “Is it true she eats people?”

Gadget quirks a brow. “No, who told you that?”

The elderly man shrugs as he puts away the tools. “Visitors. Refugees from the canyon. Most went with her, but some went into the desert.”

Gadget watches him closely. “Where in the desert?”

“Who can say? They probably died out there. There’s nothing but salt for a hundred days.”

 _Untrue_. There’s also a buried mall few know about. Gadget wonders if the refugees found it and perhaps filled the heads of whoever was already down there with lies about Furiosa and her comrades. All speculation, of course, supplied by an overactive mind that refuses rest. He hops off the table and shakes the doctor’s hand. 

Afterwards, he stops by the shop and makes some quick repairs to his bike. It’s been clanking a bit and pulling to the right, so he’s kneeling in the dirt, making the proper adjustments with a wrench when a shadow falls across his face and a surprised voice asks: “Gadget?”

He looks up to see the amazed face of Capable. Uttering an exclamation, he hops to his feet then stoops to kiss her cheek in greeting. Her red hair is parted in the normal braids, but apart from that detail she looks nothing like a former bride of the Immortan. In fact, she is clad in road warrior gear: leather top-to-bottom, from the riding cap to the jacket and chaps over slacks, the ensemble topped off with a pair of riding goggles. She’s also guiding along a bike of quality that makes Gadget’s mouth water in envy. “What’re you doing out this way?”

“Supply run. Furiosa lets me go on my own now,” she declares with not a little pride. The smugness gives way to curiosity: “What about you?”

His heart hammers, acutely aware of each passing second that he should be leaving, should be tearing across the plain to—where? He’ll figure it out. Maybe the village for Arthur. Maybe the Citadel for Furiosa. Who is more likely to help during a hostage negotiation? Furiosa will want to use relentless force that could end up getting the alphas killed whereas Arthur will insist on going down into the shops and negotiating one-on-one, which could also get him killed, and in turn get Gadget killed when Max murders him. 

He considers lying, but has already hesitated too long, and now Capable is staring at him in open concern. “Is it The Dag?” she whispers. He opens his mouth, but fails to speak. Another tell. She kicks down the stand and surges closer. “Conch?”

“No, no,” he says, glancing behind her, observing all the potential eavesdroppers. “Where are you off to now? Can you spare a detour?”

Before the words are out of his mouth, she pulls down the goggles. “Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

There are periods of lucidity when Daku realizes where he is, what he’s done, and what is currently happening to him. One such moment of clarity visits him on the second day. He’s still feverish, splayed naked on the floor, caked blood on his face, the taste of copper in his mouth, and his head rolls to the side. There’s a tray of food by the door: a bowl of mush and an apple. He’s not hungry. His chin rotates back to the left and he stares at the ceiling. It’s white, like the rest of the room, but a slightly grayer shade with a crack running horizontally. 

He closes his eyes and tries to remember everything. There was a fight. He remembers struggling and Max hitting him in the face. Why would Max hit him?

_Because you attacked him._

Daku opens his eyes again. 

Moving is not a possibility. His muscles are largely atrophied and the fever is still there, threatening from the shadows, determined to overwhelm him again sometime soon. Worse, perhaps most humiliating, is the erection pressed to his belly. It’s swollen, angry, leaking steadily, and the guards snicker about it whenever they come in to deposit or remove his meals. Daku wonders why they’re bothering to feed him at all. Maybe a gesture of civility, an action they can report back to the civilians in their midst: _We’re not abusing them. We’re feeding them_. 

Cold sterility is the opposite of what he needs right now. He tries to imagine a naked Conch: warm, gushing, open and welcoming with his hungry mouth and clever fingers. If he closes his eyes and just _focuses_ he will be able to find the omega, his mate. If his father was the sun and his mother the moon, then Conch is the stars, a natural way to map what’s left of the world and find his way home. The backs of his eyelids are darkness. Just black nothingness. _What did you expect_? He’s going crazy. Too much time spent with Max.

And then, just like that, Conch is standing there.

 _Conch_ , he declares, amazed and a little afraid of shattering the moment.

The youth is nude as well, but he doesn’t look pathetic or vulnerable like Daku does on the prison floor. He’s beautiful: radiant and glowing, like during his heats though his head is shaved. Daku finds that odd. Wouldn’t he fantasize Conch with his full head of hair?

The omega looks worried and confused. _Where are you?_ he asks.

When he reaches for his hand, he feels only the air. 

 _It’s dark. They have me. The men have me_ , he stutters, frustrated he can’t be more articulate. The fever is roaring back, paralyzing his tongue—no, not his tongue. Daku realizes his mouth isn’t moving at all. _Soldiers_ , he grinds out.

_You have to come home. We need you here._

_I know, I’m sorry._

_Daku, you have to hurry_ , Conch begs, crying now.

_I’ll try. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

“See? Told you. He’s talking to himself.” When his eyes flutter open, two soldiers are standing over him. He thinks one of the men, the lighter-skinned one, is the man who electrocuted him. “Don’t die on us. Tompkins wants to talk to you after the heat.”

“Maybe we should send an omega in here. Help him break the heat.”

Daku tries to convey with murderous rage and the maneuvering of features that that is a terrible idea, but he’s fairly certain his face doesn’t move. 

“Nah, this guy’s crazy. He’ll tear ‘em apart. You saw what he did to the other one.” His attacker squats beside him and considers his face. “All you have to do is tell us where the water is and you can go home.”

Daku calmly stares back at him, noting the fever, now welcoming it as an old friend as it looms over him like a tsunami. _You didn’t kill me the first time, you can’t kill me now_. Every wave after the first one will be slightly smaller until Daku is coherent and virile again. The soldier presents a simple choice, but Daku knows simple propositions are always the ones most fraught with unanticipated quagmires. The water seems still but down below waits a kraken of unimaginable destruction.

 

* * *

 

They park the bikes just beyond Bartertown’s arch and Gadget tells her everything. The way he sees it, he has to. She listens with a pale, grave face and considers the conundrum for a flash. “I’ll ride to the village and tell everyone. You ride to the Citadel and get Furiosa.”

Gadget shifts his weight and squints: “Shouldn’t I go to the village?” What he doesn’t say: _I’d very much like to see my pregnant mate_. He doesn’t say this because it’s a weak, selfish maneuver to prioritize stealing a greedy moment with her over finding the best plan to save the alphas.

He thinks maybe Capable knows this is his reasoning and the thought makes him uneasy. She’s quite terrifying for someone who can’t weigh more than a sack of potatoes. “No,” she quickly answers with a shake of her head, “Furiosa will want to deploy forces and you should be there. You’re a good shot.”

Flattery as a means of negotiation. Very clever. He grips the bike’s handlebar and leans against it, allowing the feel of the grip and metal to soothe and anchor him. “You’ll get to the village before I can get to the Citadel, and I wager Arthur will want to rush off to the mall immediately…”

“True,” Capable concedes.

“Which…” Gadget continues, “Is why I won’t tell you where it is. Last thing I need is Max’s mate getting killed. He’ll skin me alive.”

“If _he’s_ alive.”

“He’s alive,” Gadget curtly responds. He’s not willing to humor the alternative. Men like Max and Daku…they’re not normal alphas. They have an expression for it in the grease pit: world-smashers. Not generally a compliment. Joe was a world-smasher. But deployed correctly, world-smashers can be quite useful, for example, if utilized to smash the world of whoever is currently occupying the underground shops. 

Capable nods, knowing his line of reasoning is the one they’ll have to adopt in order to move forward. “Okay,” she says, straddling her bike and revving the engine. “Then I’ll see you when you all get back to the village.”

It occurs to him in that moment that this could very well be the last time he sees her, this last connection to the rest of the sisters and brothers—the last connection to his mate and unborn child. And though he’s just lectured her on the merits of optimistic thinking, he can’t help but worry that he may not see The Dag again. “Uh…” he begins and she patiently waits, staring at him through the goggles. “Can you…just…” Fumbling, he loops a finger under his jacket and tunic and hooks the thin strip of hide around his neck, drawing out the small charm he wears around his neck. It’s nothing opulent: just a coin from the dead world with a hole drilled through it, but he’s had it as long as he can remember. “Give that to The Dag. Tell her it’s for the baby.”

“Baby,” Capable softly declares, cradling the charm in her palm, and right, of course, she hadn’t known. How could she have? He flashes a tight-lipped smile and nods. It may be his imagination, or a trick of the light, but he thinks there are tears in her eyes. “Gadget…”

He’s afraid of where this is headed, so quickly adds: “I’ll see you in a few days. Mind the road. Watch for bandits.” He lifts a leg and straddles the seat, fangs the engine and tears off without giving her a second look. He can’t look back or he’ll start to unravel. The key is to speed forward like a bullet, never losing momentum, until the mission is done.

 

* * *

 

The second day, Arthur’s worry spikes to full-blown anxiety. Now it’s indisputable they’ve been gone too long. Something terrible has happened: an injury or ambush, one of those mountain obstacles that the alphas cannot pass. On the second day, he finds Max’s glasses neatly folded beside their bedding and curses himself that he hadn’t noticed before. How will Max be able to shoot if he can’t see? Dark fantasies infect his mind: someone shot Max because he couldn’t see them hiding in the dunes, since Arthur didn’t place his glasses into his pocket before he left.

Conch’s heat mercifully distracts him from sitting alone and obsessing over such thoughts. He and The Dag are on constant duty, soothing their brother and monitoring him so he doesn’t thrash and hurt himself. Occasionally, Arthur cradles Conch’s head on his lap while The Dag drips water from a rag into his mouth. They’ve managed to keep him hydrated, but the omega isn’t coherent enough to eat, and Arthur frequently runs his fingers over Conch’s ribs, taking inventory of how they feel more prominent against his skin. 

They only take breaks to see their children, and in Arthur’s case, to breastfeed his newborn. Still nameless. It’s become somewhat awkward referring to her as _the baby_ , and he can tell the others would like to name her. _Oola is pretty_ , The Dag innocently suggests while they’re seated with Conch, watching his pale face twitch. Arthur ignores her and she knows to drop the issue. Naming her without Max being here is bad luck, a concession of defeat. It would indicate to the universe that he is capable of moving forward without his mate, which he is not. 

If it was up to Arthur, if he knew the alphas’ current location, he would arm himself and charge into the desert. He should have had Gadget draw him a map before he left. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ From now on, he’s never letting them go anywhere unless he knows we’re they’re headed. And there will be a _from now on_ because the three men will come home.

He watches Conch’s fingers flutter and realizes the youth thinks he’s playing the piano. His lips are moving again, more of the babbled whispers, probably another imagined conversations with Daku. He’s been having them on and off for the past couple days. The Dag is as still as a statue, and it occurs to Arthur that he hasn’t asked about her well-being for a while. “How are you feeling?” he asks, touching her bare arm. His sister isn’t one to ask for help if she needs it. Occasionally, he has to go digging.

She flashes a crooked smirk. “Well enough. Praying.”

There’s a lot to pray for: Conch’s heat to pass quickly, the men to return safely, her child to be born healthy. Arthur nods, in the way he always silently humors his sister’s mysticism, but what Conch said before has stuck with him—niggling, ricocheting like an echo around his skull. “You really see Gadget’s memories?” he asks.

She nods, hands sliding over her stomach even though it’s still flat and won’t harbor a bump for many days. She’s stroking the _idea_ of Gadget’s child. “I never tell him, though. Too spooky. I saw when he was a little boy. His mother gave him a charm before a raid on their village. The Buzzards burned everything, killed everyone. Terrible,” she shakes her head, “Figured they took Gadget and sold him to Bartertown. Didn’t want to ask, though. I think his mum died.”

The Dag’s stories are always oddly specific, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t just stories. Still…Arthur presses his lips together (a particular tell of his), and she happens to notice and casts a furrowed brow his way. He sighs and spills: “Before, when I asked about the memories, it was because Conch was acting like he could…communicate with Daku.”

Her eyes widen as she crawls forward, “Should have told me,” she hisses, clutching Conch’s hand and gripping his jaw to give him a shake.

“Dag, don’t,” Arthur gasps, gripping her arm. He’s afraid his sister will hurt Conch. Sometimes she doesn’t know her strength. 

“Conch,” she growls, ignoring him, “ _Conch_ ,” giving him another shake until their brother stirs, eyes no more than slits when they open. “Ask him where he is. Find out if Gadget and Max are with him.”

“He doesn’t…he’s alone,” Conch rasps, throat and tongue dry despite their best efforts to keep him hydrated.

 _Alone_. Why would he be alone? Where are the other alphas? Arthur feels sick. He tells himself this could all be a hallucination. 

“Ask him what he remembers, if there’s a landmark we can look for.”

Conch doesn’t respond, but his eyes slip shut and his face stills once more. They shouldn’t be asking this of their brother. It’s taking every ounce of energy for Conch to keep breathing, and Arthur is about to tell his sister to leave him alone when Conch’s eyes open. “They left…the bikes up top. With Gadget.”

The Dag looks at him and the breath catches in his throat. _Gadget._ Whoever imprisoned Daku and probably Max may not have gotten Gadget. And if the bikes are still up top, that would be a clear marker to search for in the desert. The alphas took the bikes, but they still have a truck, and Arthur briefly harbors a fantasy of taking it, The Dag, and every weapon they have in search of their mates. “We can’t go,” he sighs, pragmatism outweighing his thirst for vengeance. “We can’t leave all the babies with Arvo and Conch,” he nods to their brother pointedly. If the worst should happen—an invading tribe attacked—Arvo would be on his own to defend the village. Even if he left The Dag behind, they would still be under-defended.

“I could go.” He cuts off the idea with a fierce glare and she sighs: “We have to do something.”

“If Gadget got away, he’ll get help,” Arthur reassures, not really feeling the expressed confidence in his heart. They don’t _know_ he got away at all. All they know is the alphas aren’t together, a dangerous situation because their power is in numbers.

He’s about to add that all they can do is wait, but when his mouth opens the words are drowned out by the sound of a motorcycle engine.

 

* * *

 

No one tells him anything so Max learns to stop asking for information. He’s being held in a room not unlike the first cell although slightly better lit via a small window of thick glass at the top of the door that permits light to filter inside from the hallway. Max spends more of his time leaning against the door, looking for the soldiers. He’s too far down the hallway to see Daku’s room. Periodically, the soldiers visit and Max steps away from the door to brace against the farthest corner, remembering when the soldier used lightning against the other alpha. Their routine is always the same: open the door just enough to take his waste bucket and place a tray of food on the floor.

At first he refused to eat because he was afraid the food was poisoned but finally relented, at first only in little nibbles, and later in total destruction of every last crumb. Much of it he’s never seen before: food inside packets and plastic casing, but nothing is overly terrible, so he eats with aplomb. 

If he presses his ear to the door, sometimes he can hear the faint groaning of Daku. _Still alive, then_. He has no idea what happened to Gadget. Each moment is spent thinking about how he might escape and how Arthur is fairing. His mate has a tendency to forget to eat when he’s feeling overly stressed or worried, a disaster in the nursing stage when he needs to consume more food than ever to produce milk for the baby. Max aches to be reunited with his family, but every scenario he’s crafted ends badly. Fake an illness and attack the soldiers when they come in: dead; tell Daniel where the water is: dead; pretend to negotiate with Daniel and kill him when he enters the room: dead.

 _Dead, dead, dead_.

Footfalls send Max scurrying back to his corner and he crouches low, readying for a fight when the door opens. It’s Daniel, his first appearance since their initial encounter, and Max is so surprised that he stands up. The leaders squints at him. “Christ, you unravelled quickly. You look like a wild man.” Max grunts and touches his face. His beard grows quickly and he’s aware of a foul stench emitting from under his arms, but that’s unsurprising given his current living conditions. “Your friend is worse. He’s starving to death. Rough way to go.” The door moans shut behind him and Max glances at the guns strapped to his hip and thigh.

He’s not sure if any of the information is true. Lies may be Daniel’s interrogation tactic, but then again Daku is in heat, and without an omega to help break it will be near-delusional for up to seven days. However, he knows from personal experience that it can take an alpha up to thirty days to starve.

Max watches him with a blank expression. He could rush him and snatch the gun from his thigh, but would probably be shot dead within three strides.

“There’s no way out. You know that,” the soldier continues. Out of his combat fatigues, he looks smaller, about Max’s height and weight. “We sent your man running. It’s just the two of you now.” Max almost smiles. _You don’t know Gadget very well_. “How long do you think your mates can survive without you?” The question kills the blossoming smirk. Arthur is tough, The Dag too, but there’s no way three omegas and a beta can live on their own in the desert. Eventually, a traveling band of marauders will discover, rape, and kill them. “Tell me what I want to know and I’ll release the both of you.”

He calmly stares at him but doesn’t speak, which has been his response the last three times visiting soldiers have demanded he give up the location of their village.

Daniel smirks and nods, as if that’s the response he expected. “How much longer do you think you can keep it secret, Max? If we don’t find it, someone else will. Or someone familiar with its location will tell someone else who will tell someone else. Wouldn’t you rather have civilized people you can negotiate with defending your territory? We’re not barbarians. We won’t harm your mates or children.”

Max scoffs. _Civilized._ He’s not sure what that word means, but certainly it doesn’t entail beating and detaining individuals. But the rest of Daniel’s argument strikes a nerve. Max has been thinking about this since they first discovered the water. They can’t keep it secret forever, their first attempt at sharing with the Rock Rider Chief ended in disaster, and if Max was slow to trust the Canyon people, he surely isn’t ready to trust a group of uniformed, armed alphas.

So his answer is to slowly crouch again and stare at Daniel until the man shakes his head like he feels sorry for him. “You’re both gonna die down here. I hope you made peace with that.”

The truth is he hasn’t. Max isn’t ready to die, not with a mate and two little ones waiting back home for him, but a voice in his head says to be patient and wait.

Daniel slips from the room and the door grinds shut behind him, leaving Max alone to stare at the white square of light on the center of the floor.

 

* * *

 

His head is a heavy, pounding mass and Daku can’t lift it from the floor. It’s also difficult to open his eyes, but he manages and scans the room which is exactly as he last remembered: empty and dark. He doesn’t know if the throbbing sensation is from his head wound or dehydration, but finds he can’t swallow and his tongue rests like a wad of sandpaper inside his mouth. Though he can’t look down at his body (and it’s too dark to survey the damage anyway), various patches of soreness indicate he’s injured, probably from being kicked by the soldiers. And now, as he reflects, memories return: soldiers pinning him down, boot tips imbedding in his sides and ribs when he fought and bit like a snarling beast.

It feels like eons, but it hasn’t even been three days, not even long enough for the heat to have entirely passed. He needs Conch. The thought alone of his mate makes him pitifully whimper. Everything just _hurts_ so bloody much. Even the air is an oppressive humidity that fills his lungs like molasses. _The stars_ , he thinks, imagining Conch’s face, the wide, innocent eyes and pink mouth. He knows that somehow, if he concentrates very hard, he’ll be able to see Conch and that will be the compass to find their way home.

When he shuts his eyes and opens them a moment later, the cruel, cold concrete floor has transformed into a grassy bank; the stagnant air swapped for clean oxygen, tinged with smoke from—he glances to the right—the village fire pit. _The village. Home_. Splashing from the lake, and when he looks back to the water, sees Conch’s head pop through the surface. He’s laughing…probably playing with the other omegas. But no, when Daku looks around, there’s no sign of Arthur or The Dag. Conch treads water and smiles up at him and Daku’s mouth slowly curves. 

It’s a nice fantasy, shattered by the soldiers who clamor into the cell with heavy boots and dragging chains— _ah_ , that explains the bruised wrists and ankles. They’ve been restraining him during their visits. Rough hands roll him onto his back and the snickering predictably begins. They’ve been sniggering about it constantly, Daku’s erection, as if they’re not also alphas familiar with the pain of heat. The lack of empathy makes their mockery especially cruel. 

He’s been hard for so long that it doesn’t hurt anymore, though his extremities tingle with numbness having been deprived of normal blood flow. Daku stares up at the men passively, their faces sneering masks. “Jeeeesus. You could probably cut glass with that thing.”

“Can a dick get gangrene?” 

“Well, this guy’s about to find out, right buddy?”

With gloved hands they clean him, or make a half-hearted attempt, then tidy up the area of blood and waste. Daku is surprised by the scale of mess and wonders why he wasn’t overwhelmed by the stench. But then again, his senses have been dulled by the relentless pain. His vision blurs and darkens often, and he hasn’t heard any noise from the outside (even when the men open the door) in days. One of the men hooks under his arms and drags Daku to the center of the room.

“Brace yourself,” he laughs before disappearing.

If he had the energy, Daku may have furrowed his brow in confusion, but the men reappear a moment later cradling a long, thick hose. _Oh_. The last thing he sees is the soldier with the darker skin smirk and thrust down a lever before a blast of water slams into his chest and nearly stops his heart. Daku flies across the room, back cracking against the wall and fracturing the plaster. He lands in a heavy pile, shouting incoherently and attempting to cover his face, but the men walk forward and circle him, making escape from the deluge impossible. The water is cold, _so_ cold that he begins to shake even as his heart pounds wildly and his flesh burns in anger. 

Over the rush of water, Daku hears it: laughter. 

When they turn the lever and the water stops, he collapses, coughing and sputtering, his cheek pressed to the floor and gaze turned to the wall to hide his shame. These pups, half his age, keeping him like a pet: mocking and humiliating him at every turn as if, given a different time and place, Daku wouldn’t tear them apart.

“Jeeeeesus. He flew!”

“Aw, chin up, friend. You needed a bath.”

He slows his breathing, slows the beating of his heart, and gradually the sight returns and sharpens, revealing a jagged piece of the wall that his skull must have knocked loose during the collision. It may just be plaster, an unsubstantial clump that will turn to powder in his grip. But perhaps it’s drywall or a stud, a nasty little spike of metal. Slowly, he moves his hand and covers the piece with his fingers, squeezing. It doesn’t give under the weight. It feels like a long nail.

“You okay, old man? Got your bell rung, huh?” one of them laughs, walking over, the footfalls growing louder until—

Daku turns and jams the nail into the soldier’s shin. A scream fills the room and the man kicks him under his chin, head snapping backwards, vision blackening. But Daku laughs. He laughs even when the other soldiers runs over and, swearing colorfully, kicks him twice in the ribs and stomach. He laughs when the blond soldier yanks out the nail and blood darkens his fatigues. He laughs as the men threaten to kill him, then find his village and kill his tribe. 

He laughs as the men sober in the presence of his mad display, even as the fairer one bleeds and bleeds, eventually stumbling out of the cell with one arm wrapped around his comrade’s shoulders for support. He’s still laughing when his eyes close and he tries to find the green place again where Conch is bathing in the lake.

This time, Conch isn’t languidly bathing, but rather earnestly glancing around as though he’s been looking for him for quite some time. “Daku!” he calls, relief washing across his face. “Capable is here. She saw Gadget in Bartertown. He’s going to the Citadel for reinforcements.”

Daku wonders why the omega doesn’t swim to him. Maybe he can’t. He sits up slowly and understands. This place, wherever they are, is beautiful but a bit like swimming through tar. The atmosphere is thick and tastes overly sweet. “He’s alive?”

“Yes. I’m supposed to tell you to hold on. Don’t give up. Gadget and Furiosa are coming.”

The green place vanishes.

Daku braces against the wall and stands slowly, somewhat surprised that his legs can hold weight. He feels strangely light walking forwards, almost as though floating, and the laughter pours out of him, loud inside the cell and most certainly drifting into the hall to follow the fleeing soldiers.

He presses against the door and sucks in a breath before bellowing: “Do you think you can kill me?”

Only silence answers, even though he happens to know there are men stationed outside the door, just as there are men stationed outside Max’s cell a little ways down the hallway. Twenty steps, to be precise. Daku has been keeping little mental notes about this place and the men who defend it, and he has reached the following conclusion: their foes are little boys playing at a man’s game.

“I am Daku who survived the fall and the radiation. Lieutenant to the Bullet Farmer, Major Kalashnikov, original conquerer of the Citadel with the Immortan. We fought in the oil and water wars while you were still in diapers. While you were hiding in the dark, we tore down the last resistance and claimed the mines as our own. And you think you can kill me…” Daku trails off laughing, only just now understanding how hilariously absurd this whole charade is.

“Daku?” 

The voice finally stymies Daku’s hysterical laughter. _Max._ He surges forward and presses an ear to the gap between the door and wall. “Max?”

“Daku!” More excited now, their first contact in days. 

What to say? But then, Daku remembers the green place.

“Gadget is alive. He’s coming for us.”

And now, from the other room, floating down the hallway into his ear, the sounds of laughter. Max’s laughter. All this time, people thought Max was insane, but Daku understands now. Max isn’t crazy. He just sees things very clearly and recognizes the rest as the absurd, inconsequential nonsense it really is. Soldiers? Soldiers think they can kill them?

_Good luck._

He smiles, eyes shut, listening to the sounds of Max’s laughter, his own bubbling up to join the chorus.


	10. Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end is the beginning

Arthur knows the logical thing to do would be to craft a contingency plan, one that acknowledges the very real possibility that the alphas are dead and the omegas will need to figure out a survival plan. But he cannot accept that Max may be dead, largely because he’s never felt the severing of their bond. Sometimes, he sits with Tallara and the baby inside their hut, closes his eyes, and tries to lull his every atom into stillness in order to focus on the beating of his heart. Is there a quiet agony he has refused to acknowledge?

No. Therefore, Max is alive. 

Capable has been staying with them, having arrived just as Conch’s heat broke, bringing with her news of having met with Gadget in Bartertown. Encouraging news, but by no means a guarantee that the other alphas are alive and well. He could tell The Dag was trying to suppress her joy out of respect for them, but she could not conceal the light dancing in her gaze as she seized their sister’s shoulders, practically shaking the details from her: Gadget looked in good health, though his ear was bandaged, and oh yes, he gave her something to deliver… _where is it…_?

“Ah,” she declares, fishing a necklace from her riding jacket’s pocket and pooling it inside The Dag’s palm.

A coin on a bit of rope. With shining eyes, she eases the loop over her bald head, the coin resting between her breasts. “His mum gave it to him,” she whispers, “Before the raid when…” The thought dies on her tongue. No need to say the rest. Gadget’s story is a familiar one: his entire family butchered by monsters, the young rounded up to be slaves or soldiers. That will be their future if they aren’t able to defend the village.

Arthur tries not to feel envious—that The Dag knows Gadget is alive, that she has this totem to connect her to her mate, that she and Gadget share memories during the heats, just like Daku and Conch. Why can’t he see Max’s memories during his heats? He digs into the past, trying to locate a moment where he experienced a vision, a glimmer into the alpha’s history, but it’s never happened. Does that mean their bond is somehow weak or inferior?

It’s a terrible time to be mentally unraveling, and over such trivial things, but he can’t help it. Long are the hours he’s alone with the babies, who cannot speak or comfort their father, and he’s left with his dark thoughts as company. Tallara watches with Max’s eyes from their bedding and he looks back at her. “We’re alright,” he whispers, brushing back her hair and she smiles.

Conch is coherent once more, practically a walking skeleton by the time he wandered unescorted from the hut for the first time after his heat. Arthur, The Dag, and Capable watched him with concerned eyes as he unsteadily made his way to the lake, collapsed onto his knees and drank desperate palmfuls of water. They prepared some food: a bit of rat meat, some of The Dag’s vegetables, and he ate ravenously, plus a second plate. Afterwards, when pressed for memories of the ordeal, he couldn’t remember anything.

“I saw Daku?” he rasped, eyes large in their sunken sockets.

Arthur hurts just looking at him. “That’s what you said,” he weakly replied.

Maybe none of it was real. 

Thirty days pass. 

They settle into a routine with such ease that Arthur deeply resents every passing second. The village shouldn’t revert to a state of normalcy without the alphas. Every moment should feel like a crisis, but it doesn’t, and Arthur is filled with enormous guilt. He should be riding through the desert, searching for the men, but he can’t abandon the other omegas and the babies. He is the default leader now, and as such he can’t be his young, reckless self. Now is the time for clear-eyed, level-headed reasoning. 

Conch is finally able to care for the babies again, much to the relief of he and The Dag who are still nurturing sore nipples from feeding their own children plus Rabi and Bindi. The poor mites fed resentfully throughout the ordeal, clearly aware it was not their father’s breast milk they were tasting during mealtime. Fortunately, they still gulped it down and didn’t lose any weight during Conch’s heat. The youth cried when he saw the babies for the first time afterwards and thanked them, saying he’d never be able to repay the debt.

“No thanks needed,” The Dag laughed, cupping his wet face. “You’d do the same for us.”

And that is the implicit truth that drives them forward: they would die for one another. Indeed, Daku and Max may have done just that, and their tribute is to survive another day in their honor.

The burden weighs heavily on Arthur. As much as they are able to carry on as usual in the village, he is profoundly aware of how vulnerable they are now. Normal noises set him on edge: Goat's bleating, for example. He becomes obsessed with the idea that the beast’s carrying on will attract the attention of marauders. “Is there any way to shut it up?” he asks The Dag, who shoots him an odd look. _Of course not_. He’s an animal, after all. 

Arthur compensates by paroling the perimeter at night, armed with a rifle. He’s paranoid, overly jumping, and nearly shoots Dog one night when the mutt springs out at him from behind a dune. “Go to the hut,” he snarls and the poor dog whimpers and races off, tail tucked between his legs. 

He stops wearing the linens and dons his riding gear all the time, convinced he’ll need to fight off invading alphas at any moment. The other omegas and Arvo notice the change in his behavior, the dark circles under his eyes, but say nothing. 

The Dag is sporting a small baby bump now, frequently rubbing and chatting at it as though the baby can hear her. “Hot one today,” she tells it and it’s true: the desert is blazing in the morning and Arthur is sweating under his leather gear, but he refuses to change out of them. He can’t fight alphas dressed in a skimpy sheet. 

“Here,” Capable says, offering him a cup of water, which he gratefully accepts and downs in two gulps.

Arthur considers the empty wooden receptacle. Gadget carved it a few days before the men left on the run. “Maybe you should go to the Citadel. See what the delay is.” 

It’s something they’ve discussed many times—almost every day since Capable’s arrival at the village. Initially, she explained Gadget was going to the Citadel to bring reinforcements to help liberate the other alphas. There’s a chance they went straight to the buried shops, but surely they should have heard _something_ by now, and Arthur is tired of waiting. He’s angry with Furiosa for not sending word about what’s happening—no messenger, no scout, _nothing_. She can’t expect him to twiddle his thumbs while his mate might be tortured and killed.

And just like all the other time he’s brought it up, Capable stares back at him with placid eyes. “That’s not the plan,” she repeats and Arthur instantly knows there’s no point in fighting. Cohesion is all they have right now, and picking a fight with his sister will only rile up The Dag and frighten Conch. He also knows Gadget deliberately crafted _this_ plan, the one that keeps him ignorant of the mall’s exact location, and forces him to remain as a caretaker for the others.

Because, without any of the alphas present, Arthur is their best chance at survival.

He was furious with Gadget until he realized the enormous confidence the man has in him. _He wants to keep you here because he believes you can fight off any enemy._

Arvo tentatively approaches with Bindi cradled in his arms. “Conch…?” The baby is a squirming, whimpering mass in his arms. She wants her father.

The youngest omega smiles and stands, taking the baby. “I’ll watch her. Thanks, Arvo.” He gently touches the boy’s shoulder on his way past him to the hut and Arthur sees pride flash across the boy’s face. From tragedy, Arvo has found a sense of purpose. They would not have endured had it not been for his help with the babies. 

Arthur makes a mental note to tell Max about how much Arvo helped them throughout the crisis. Maybe they can think of a gift for the boy. He makes plans like this all the time—curating a careful list of all the things he’ll tell Max upon his return. Because he will return one day soon.

That’s how he operates during the day. At night, the nefarious thoughts visit and chase Arthur out of his hut to walk the circumference of the village, searching for a faceless enemy. Occasionally, he dips back into the hut to check on the girls, but if they’re sound asleep he returns to endlessly trudge through the drifts of sand. The desert is freezing at night, Arthur’s breath expelling from his lips in large white bursts, but he isn’t cold under the layers of gear, his heart pounding and skin burning.

Sometimes, he realizes his lips are moving, that he’s been talking to Max for hours. Imaginary conversations. Cursing him for not being here, with them.

Is this what madness is like?

 

* * *

 

In the end, Furiosa arrives with little fanfare accompanied by only two vehicles, both small trucks with three former War Boys manning each, plus Gadget leading the way on his bike. Arthur emerges from the hut when he hears the engines in time to see The Dag sprinting across the camp into his arms. They both laugh, then grow quiet as they share a private murmured exchange that gives way to nuzzling and kissing. Arthur looks away after that, nearly choking on envy. 

A squeak of hinges, a door slamming shut, and the Queen of the Citadel is standing there, calmly watching him approach.

“Where were you?” he greets, not bothering to hide the hostility in his tone.

If she’s angered by the disrespect, she doesn’t show it. “There was an outbreak at the Citadel. One of the Canyon people brought back spots with them. I was needed there until we could distribute an antidote.” She watches him for a moment, perhaps noticing his gaunt appearance for the first time. “I’m sorry.”

For some reason, he laughs. Lately, the wires are crossed in his brain, causing him to laugh and cry at strange times. Yesterday, Arvo told a story at campfire about the time he found a wolf puppy in the Canyon and Arthur had to excuse himself so he could privately cry inside his hut.

He recognizes Furiosa’s expression: wariness. Everyone is afraid he’s going crazy. He _is_ going crazy.

No matter. “Are we leaving?” He assumes that’s why she’s here, with the trucks and men—to recruit them as additional hands to go find Max and Daku—if there’s anything left to save.

“Not you,” Furiosa says, casting her gaze across the camp: past the embracing Gadget and Dag, past Capable, who is already wearing her riding gear in anticipation of their departure, over to Arvo, huddled behind Conch, watching the procession of former War Boys with not a little fear. Understandable. The only other times he’s seen these men were when the Immortan was terrorizing his people. “ _Him_ ,” she says, pointing to Arvo, and all eyes turn to the boy.

He shrinks back, gaze huge, pools of fear. 

“Arvo?” he asks in disbelief, “Why?”

“There are Canyon folk in the buried shops, and I’ve gathered there are…rumors about how I lead the Citadel. Myths. I’m hoping seeing one of their own will put to rest their fears.”

“What rumors?”

Furiosa hesitates for a moment. “That I eat people.”

Arthur stares at her before the laughter bubbles up again: the terrible, uncontrollable eruption that is not like the joyous contagious kind. This breed of laughter never becomes a chorus and instead ends with people who love Arthur staring at him in open concern.

She waits until he settles to approach, her human hand gripping his shoulder. “I need you here. I’m going to bring back Max.”

How he wants to believe her. The laughter has left him feeling drained, low tide, an endless abyss of sadness threatening to step in to fill the vacant space. Lately, he can barely stand to look at Tallara because she looks so much like his mate.

“If they hurt him…” He doesn’t know how to finish the thought.

No need. Furiosa nods in agreement. “Total massacre.”

 

* * *

 

Endless hours of listening, gathering intelligence, tidbits to use as leverage during negotiations. For the most part, the soldiers are careful to not say anything in the corridor outside his cell, but mistakes are inevitable. A crying boy runs down the hallway once, shouting that he wants to give _the men_ his toys. One of the soldiers runs after him and gathers the boy into his arms, speaking in a kind, soothing voice that Max has never heard any of the soldiers use before. “They’re okay. Just napping…” he tells the child, which is when Max understands. 

The others don’t know how they’re being treated, and there is not a consensus that he and Daku are dangerous and should be kept as prisoners. Daniel is keeping them locked far away from the general populace because, in all likelihood, the Canyon refugees would object to their abuse.

“Help!” he shouts before the soldier can disappear the child. 

The boy never appears again, but Max comforts himself with the idea that the child will return and tell the others they’re being abused. 

Hoping for a popular uprising is naive, but it’s the first glimmer of hope he’s seen in weeks. How long has it been? Max wanders over to the hall where he’s been scratching marks with his thumbnail. There are twenty-odd lines. He touches the engravings and sighs. At first, he hallucinated nearly non-stop, engaging in imagined conversations with Arthur and his children—his baby daughter, who he barely knows—a warm, small bundle in his arms. But then the visions stopped and now he is left utterly alone without even his madness as company.

Perhaps crazy is contagious because now it is Daku who sings and rants to himself, shouting for a mate who cannot hear him.

Max tries to call to him, hoping his voice will serve as an anchor to keep Daku among the sane, but the other alpha never responds to his shouting.

Days pass…and pass. There is no natural light in his cell, but Max can differentiate between the days by the soldiers’ schedules and now they trade off watches. He comforts himself with the thought that Arthur is a strong omega and capable of surviving that amount of time without his mate. But he cannot endure indefinitely. 

Daniel visits every few days to question him, and Max knows the soldier is growing frustrated. He gathers, by the idle comments the leader and some of the other men make, that Daku is borderline incoherent and useless for gathering intelligence. That leaves Max and Max alone to grill for information about the village’s location. He responds to all their questions with silence, and so the interrogations segue from polite questioning to threats to physical intimidation. The soldiers strike him while Daniel watches—never in the face—but in his stomach, in the kidneys, boots kicking him in the thighs and back as he lays on the floor, curled up to protect his skull.

One time, Daniel tells the men to “take a tooth,” and they wrestle him onto his back and pry open his mouth as he thrashes and screams. The pliers’ metal prongs clamp down on a central incisor and give a warning tug when Daniel holds up his hand to signal they should stop. He crouches nearby Max’s head and watches him for a moment. “I have scouts on bikes _right_ now searching for it. We’re going to find it. Just _tell_ me where it is and this ends.”

Max is breathing hard, imagining what it will be like when the tooth is torn from his skull, but he doesn’t speak.

A muscle in Daniel’s jaw twitches. “Leave him,” he barks and the pliers release his tooth, the men standing and leaving him alone in the room.

He’s stunned for a moment, but it’s then he knows the soldiers are afraid to hurt him too severely, lest the civilians realize they are living among monsters. Momentary relief floods his chest cavity, until a small voice suggests this small mercy can’t last forever. Daniel has reached his breaking point, and soon not even the disapproval of the civilians will stop him from hurting him and Daku—badly.

 

* * *

 

Arvo rides in the truck’s front seat, sandwiched between Furiosa (who is driving) and Gadget, who cradles a rifle across his lap and surveys the landscape, surveying for bandits. In the bed of the truck, Gadget’s bike strains against the ropes tying it down, restraints moaning in effort, War Boys surrounding the machine to keep it from breaking free. The vehicle bumps and jostles across the rough terrain, and he mumbles apologies every time he accidentally nudges the gun. Gadget flashes a kind smile, “No worries, little one. You’re quite the brave soldier.” 

He smiles weakly, hoping to look more confident than he feels. Furiosa’s people have been very good to him, and he likes his place in the village, so once it was explained that this operation will protect the future of their community, he was quick to agree to the arrangement. Of course, that doesn’t mean he _isn’t_ terrified at the idea of ingratiating himself into this new place. Arvo is no spy. He was rubbish at it the first time he tried to be one for the Rock Rider Chief, when Max immediately spotted and chased him down. And there’s no reason to believe he won’t be rubbish this time around too. What if the men defending the buried shops know he’s lying? What if they shoot him?

Arvo is small sitting between the warriors, acutely aware of his bony frame, the knobs of his knees pressed together.

“What if they know I’m lying?” he asks.

“Gadget will be nearby. You whistle and he’ll distract the men. Then you free Daku and Max and get out of there,” she explains, eyes never leaving the terrain. 

“Okay,” he quietly agrees. What choice does he have?

They park behind some dunes and Gadget walks him to the top of a mound and points in the direction he’ll need to walk. The alpha says the shops are somewhere over the horizon thataways, and though Arvo can’t see anything, he believes him. Gadget claps him on the shoulder and says, “Good luck, boy,” and Furiosa nods to him, and that’s that. He walks and walks until the tops of shoulders are red and raw from the sun and his ankles itch with swollen bites from sandflies. 

He nearly walks right by the entrance to the shops, which is no larger than a hole in the earth. “Hello?” he calls into the darkness.

“Who goes there?” an angry voice shouts back and Arvo nearly takes off running.

“I’m a refugee from the Canyon,” he calls, repeating Furiosa’s script, heart hammering inside his throat. He steps back slightly, remembering that a soldier nearly took off Gadget’s ear with a shot from the dark. “I heard you’re taking people,” he adds, voice shaking.

The end of a rope thumps against the sand. “Loop that through the hook. It’s buried by the entrance,” the voice explains. Arvo’s bare toes nudge against the sand until he feels metal—a loop imbedded in the base rock beneath the sand. “Loop the rope through it and tie the other end around your waist. Then rebury the hook, understand?”

“Okay,” Arvo answers, following the instructions. 

“Gradually ease into the hole. We’ll lower you down.”

He sits on the edge, legs dangling into the air and stares into the darkness. Then, with a deep breath, he drops into the air. There’s a terrifying moment of free falling and then _wump,_ his weight catches against the counterweight of the men lowering him. The rope creeks and moans as he lowers, the hemp painfully buried against his ribcage, making it difficult for him to suck in shaky breaths, and then finally his feet touch the cool surface and several soldiers rush forward to untie the rope from his waist. He watches one of them sharply yank the rope free from the loop, leaving it buried and invisible once more at the surface.

His eyes take a moment to adjust in the darkness, but he eventually spots Max and Daku’s bikes leaning against a nearby wall.

“State your name,” one of the soldiers demands.

“Arvo,” he mumbles.

“Arvo!” a voice repeats from the darkness and suddenly a boy runs forward and collides with him, skeletal arms looping his neck, and he understands who this is by his smell before his eyes can catch up. _Toba_. A boy, _a_ _friend_ from the Canyon. He laughs and hugs him tightly, briefly relieved at finding a friendly face among the terror of this situation. “We heard the witch had you! I was afraid you were dead.”

“You’re the child from the village?” a soldier asks.

He shakes his head, repeating Furiosa’s lie: “They cast me out. Head critters,” he explains. Toba leans back, frowning in concern and he grins. “They’re gone now. Cut my hair, didn’t I?” The other boy smiles too and laughs. “I walked to the Citadel but ran away when I saw what she’s like. A lady at Bartertown told me you’re taking in refugees from the Canyon. Is it true?”

The soldiers share a wary glance, figuring out if his story is true or a lie. “Yes!” Toba answers for them, hungry to believe Arvo’s story. “We know all about the she-alpha. You’ll like it down here. We have lights and beds! Come on, I’ll show you.”

“Wait, Toba,” a soldier says, “Let Tompkins talk to him first.”

He hopes Tompkins is the leader, because if so, things are going according to plan.

The men take him to the center of a large room beside a concrete structure comprised of circular tiers, the largest at the base, the smallest at the top. Arvo stares at it for a long time because he’s never seen anything like it. There’s a glowing orb in the center of the ceiling that he looks at as well, until his eyes begin to ache, and he looks back at the monument. “Fountain,” says a man. “Water used to pour out of it.” _Must be Tompkins,_ Arvo decides.

“For people to drink?”

He smiles faintly. “No. For decoration.” Arvo furrows his brow and Tompkins chuckles. “Different time…” The soldier sits on the fountain’s lip and considers him. Even sitting, he’s almost Arvo’s standing height. “I hear you were cast out of the village.”

Arvo nods, being sure to look the man in the eyes, just as Gadget told him, “I had head critters, but I didn’t know. I tried to say it was an accident, but…” he shrugs, “They were mad.”

“And then you met the she-alpha,” he prompts.

“Yes, she’s scary.” His shoulders relax a bit when the man laughs. “She does…bad things.”

This sobers Tompkins and he nods, as if a long-held fear has finally been verified. “We know. We’ve heard.” He leans forward, “Don’t worry. You’re safe here.”

“What is that?” he asks, pointing to the spiral of light.

“Lightbulb. It’s like the sun, but men made it. We have that here.” He thinks maybe it’s pride in the man’s voice. “You’ll like it here, Arvo.”

 _I like the village_ , he silently thinks, but keeps the thought to himself.

 

* * *

 

He’s given a cot inside a small room where Toba and a young girl named Yarva also sleep. The arrangement excites his friend from the Canyon, who gives him the full tour of the room, even though it’s a small space and there isn’t much to look at. Like Tompkins, he’s very proud of the fake sun and Arvo politely watches as the boy shows him the switch that controls it, and explains how to turn it on and off. _Not as good as our lake_ , he decides. 

Tompkins watches them from the doorway, and Arvo is aware of his presence, so he makes sure to do a good job at pretending that he’s happy and relieved to be here.

Once Toba is finished speaking, Tompkins calls him over and Arvo goes to stand in front of the soldier who is almost as wide as the doorway itself. “If I take you to the cells where the men are held, they’ll recognize you, yes?”

His stomach gives a painful twist. This is one of the complications they anticipated. Daku and Max aren’t filled in of the plan, or the lie they’ve concocted that Arvo was brutally cast out of the village. There’s a chance they could spoil the whole thing by warmly greeting him or expressing confusion if asked about their past. He nods. “Yes…”

“And you can find the village?”

Arvo nods again. “Yes.”

The corners of Tompkin’s mouth curl into a smirk. “Very good. Come with me.”

Together they walk past the dead monument and the main corridor of shops, down another hallway with closed doors, and Tompkins pauses in front of one of them and opens the door. Daku is inside and Arvo has to shut his mouth before he gasps in surprise. The man looks awful: thin, hair wild and haggard face lined with the beginning of a beard. He’s naked and covered in dirt. “You,” Tompkins barks and Daku snarls when he sees them, rushing forward towards the light of the hallway. Arvo cries out in fear, huddled behind the soldier, but suddenly there’s a clank and Daku snaps backwards. He’s chained to the wall.

The alpha blinks rapidly, eyes adjusting, and his gaze finally settles on Arvo. There’s a flash of recognition and Arvo briefly considers running. This isn’t going to work. Daku is out of his mind and is going to give him away. “Arvo…” he mumbles.

 _Oh no_. Tompkins glances back at him. “You know this boy?”

He considers praying, but then Daku bears his teeth. “Little traitor.” Arvo stares at him, stunned. Could Daku possibly understand he’s here as a spy? Or does his confused mind believe Arvo has switched sides and joined the soldiers? “Traitor!” he growls again and Tompkins moves to shut the door, but before he can secure the latch, the alpha barks: “Jest to sztuczka. Mają chłopca!”

“Babbling fool,” Tompkins snarls contemptuously, thrusting the external latch into place. “Don’t be frightened,” he encourages, clapping Arvo on the back.

Next, the man guides him to another room, this one with a window at the top of the door, and Max is there, patiently watching them through the glass when they arrive. He stares down at Arvo until Tompkins catches his attention and gestures for the man to back up. Max obliges and the door is opened. They repeat the routine from before: Tompkins asks Max if he knows Arvo and the man considers the boy for a beat before nodding. “We took him in…”

Arvo’s heartbeat kicks up again. “You did,” he accuses and Max looks up with a wisely blank face, waiting for the boy to instruct him on how to respond, “Before you kicked me out.” Tompkins grips his shoulder, a silent cue to be quiet because he wants to dictate the terms of the conversation, but Arvo knows this is his one chance to tell Max what the plan is, “I could have died! Anyone can get critters, you know! It’s not like I had spots!”

“Easy, kid. Easy,” Tompkins soothes.

Arvo is breathing hard, tears in his eyes, mostly because he’s scared, but it makes the whole act that much more convincing.

Max quietly digests the information. “But you didn’t die, did you? Here you are…” His voice is absent its normal warmth and fondness. It’s like a stranger is speaking to him.

Tompkins smirks. “Is that how you run the village? Casting out children?”

The alpha’s gaze switches over to the soldier. “At least I don’t lie to them: locking up prisoners, beating them, and calling it _civilized_.”

This is a message to Arvo and he knows it: _These men are dangerous. Be careful_. Tompkins rests a supportive hand on his back. “I wanted you to see the boy so you understand he’s going to show us where the village is. It’s over.”

The corner of Max’s eye twitches. “We’ll see about that.” The words make Arvo shiver but Tompkins simply smirks and steers him from the room. “Tomorrow you’ll show us where the village is,” he announces once they’re standing in the hallway and he locks the latch. “Tonight, try to get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

He means the razing and capture of their village, which will never happen because Arvo won’t allow it. He nods. “Yes, sir.”

All the years as the Rock Rider Chief’s servant has made him very good at blending into the background. People trust Arvo because they don’t think he’s capable of being sneaky or strong, but he is. He’s had to be strong to survive this long. That night, he lays on his back across the cot and looks at the ceiling, or the patch of darkness where he knows the ceiling to be located. In his head, he counts: seconds, minutes, and finally hours until it’s the dead of night and he can sneak from the bed on silent feet.

The Canyon people are good at creeping quietly, keenly aware of how to place their feet and move their weight so as to not shift rocks and pebbles, and Arvo applies the same technique moving through the complex. He crouches and surveys the main corridor where there are soldiers stationed on night watch, wearing those strange goggles that make them capable of seeing at night. But Arvo grew up without manmade light and he is better at using the shadows to his advantage. He patiently waits until the men turn away and darts across the hallway, in the direction of Max and Daku’s cells.

The hallways are still illuminated at night, so Arvo knows he’ll have to hurry as he unlocks Daku’s room, yanking the door open and running inside. The alpha silently watches him as he uses a small pick to open the cuffs of his chains, and they don’t speak a word because there’s no time. Arvo runs from his cell and heads to Max’s cell next. He yanks open the door and smiles, happiness briefly visiting when he believes the operation has been a success—until a hand seizes the back of his neck and lifts him by the scruff. “You little—” Tompkins growls, throwing him backwards. He yelps when he collides with the wall, and stunned, watches as the soldier attempts to thrust closed the door once more.

But it’s too late: Max’s boot blocks the door and then the powerful bulk of his body, and suddenly someone tackles Tompkins from the side. It’s Daku: wild, snarling Daku, and the two alphas pummel the soldier with their fists and feet as Arvo scrambles away. The scuffle immediately attracts attention, a group of soldiers sprinting by him with barely a second glance because they’re too preoccupied racing to their commander’s aid. Arvo runs to where the hallway spills out into the main corridor, places two fingers into his mouth, and whistles as loudly as he can. The sound rings out clear, bounces and echoes down the corridor, up to the hole at the earth’s surface.

A terrible moment of nothing. Maybe Gadget isn’t at his station. Maybe Arvo is all alone.

Then: crackling, a light sailing through the darkness, a small package flapping as it his the floor and then _popopopop_ —a series of small explosions. Down the hallway, muffled swearing, and the same group of soldiers (plus a hobbling Tompkins) charge back past Arvo toward the noise. Firecrackers. Gadget threw firecrackers to distract them. “It’s the other alpha!” one of the soldiers roars and they fetch a long ladder and angle it upwards to brace against the hole’s entrance. Arvo runs back into the darkness of the hallway and nearly collides with the alphas.

“Come on,” Max gruffly instructs, gripping his arm and pulling him along. Arvo numbly processes that neither man is gravely injured and Daku is wearing his old riding gear. “Where do they keep them?”

“This way…” Daku answers, darting to the right, then the left. _Maybe he’s not crazy after all_.

He’s about to ask where they’re running (after all, the entrance is the other way) when they reach a door and Daku throws it open, revealing racks and racks of guns and weapons. _Oh_. Max goes to the wall and begins pulling guns off the hooks. “I didn’t know you speak Polish,” he says to Daku.

The other alpha smirks and takes an imposing-looking gun from him. “I speak a little bit of everything…”

“Surprised I remember any of it,” Max murmurs to himself. “How did you know I speak it?”

The alpha quirks a brow. “ _Rockatansky_ is a Polish name if I ever heard one.”

Arvo finally understands. Daku wasn’t babbling like Tompkins thought. He was shouting to Max in another language. “What did you say?” he asks.

“Said it was a trick and they had you.”

Max thrusts one of the smaller guns into Arvo’s hands. 

“You remember what I taught you about shooting?” Feeling numb, he nods. “Good. Switch the safety off. Shoot any soldier you see.”

“What about the others?” He thinks of Toba and Yarva. 

Daku is inspecting the large gun, but pauses to share a wary glance with Max. “If they fight us, put them down.”

“They won’t,” he insists. “They’re just scared. Let me talk to them.”

“Arvo…” Max begins, but he continues before the man can try to dissuade him:

“The Immortan would have put them down. The Rock Rider Chief too, but you aren’t like that,” he earnestly insists, gazing imploringly at Max. “I know you aren’t.”

Max sighs, strapping a large gun over his back and picking up two more. “Fine. We’ll deal with the soldiers. You can try and talk to the children. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Gadget runs as soon as the explosives leave his hand and leaps onto the bike, tires whirring in the sand, desperately scrambling for purchase as he fangs the throttle. Bandana strapped across his face, goggles shielding his eyes, he tears off and then idles just behind the first dune, waiting. He waits for the men to scramble out of the hole and then hike up their own bikes, waits for them to gain a little distance, and then he speeds off again, leading them towards the trap.

 

* * *

 

A soldier charges at them and Arvo cowers when Daku shoots him in the head. The alphas race towards the sound of shouting and vanish into the darkness, leaving Arvo standing there with the small pistol dangling from his fingers. Eventually, he finds a planter and leaves the gun inside. He doesn’t want to shoot anyone. Then he hurries back to his room and finds the door is shut and locked from the inside. Tentatively, he knocks on the door. “It’s me…” he announces before the door opens, revealing eight sets of frightened eyes staring back at him, including Toba and Yarva. His nose tells him they’re mostly omegas, maybe a few betas too.  

“Arvo…” Toba sighs, relieved, pulling him inside and locking the door again, “Those men got out.”

“I know. I let them out.” The other children shrink away from him, all except Toba, who stares at him in a mixture of fear and betrayal. “They’re good men, and everything you’ve heard about Furiosa is a lie. She didn’t kidnap me. She saved me from the Rock Rider Chief. The Citadel is a nice place now. There’s food and water. There are other kids.” He adds, a moment later: “She doesn’t eat people. That’s a lie the Chief and soldiers told you to keep you because they know they won’t be able to have babies on their own, since they’re all alphas.”

The children glance at one another, each waiting for the other to dispute Arvo’s claims, but no one does. Perhaps they’ve known all along. There must have been nights (and days) when they heard Daku and Max crying out from their cells. A frightening environment for a group of kids.

“Do you swear to Walhalla they’re good?” Toba whispers.

Arvo nods, spitting into his palm and offering it to his kin. “I swear it.”

The other boy spits into his palm and their hands clap together: the next best thing to a blood oath.

“Will you go to the Citadel with us?” Toba asks and Arvo shakes his head.

“The village is my home.”

 

* * *

 

Gadget rips across the landscape, the roaring engines at his back a clear signal the soldiers are close behind. He veers sharply to the right, ducking behind some dunes where Furiosa and the Citadel soldiers are waiting. He only slows down enough for Furiosa to leap onto the back of his bike and grip his shoulders with her metal arm. “Go!” she barks and he does, roaring back to the flat plain where the soldiers will be able to see him. As they rip past the hidden trucks, the Citadel soldiers open fire, and Gadget sees three of the men fall when he glances over his shoulder. The bike at the front accelerates to avoid the volley. “Is that him?” she shouts above all the noise. 

Gadget glances over his shoulder again. He can’t be sure. He’s never seen the leader’s face, but he recognizes the markings on his jacket: three stacked Vs. A sergeant first class. “It’s him!” he answers.

Furiosa taps his left shoulder and he veers sharply, giving her an open shot. She swings around the rifle and fires, the blast blowing a cloud of sand into Tompkins’ face, but still he charges towards them. Sunlight catches metal at his hip a second before he draws the weapon. “Watch it!” he warns, pivoting sharply, and Furiosa barely holds on, the claw painfully digging into his shoulder. “Shoot! Shoot!”

She does, catching the soldier in his shoulder. Luckily, the thick bandage protects his ear from the loud explosion. The leader is hit and jerks but doesn’t fall. He fires again, the bullet narrowly missing Gadget, tearing the fabric of his jacket.

The Citadel soldiers cut off the rest of the reinforcements, pin them between the two trucks and open fire. _Total Massacre._

He feels Furiosa exhale, somehow so calm, before she shoots again. The bullet catches the leader square in his chest and he topples off the bike, instantly transformed into a blur of limbs and metal, a cloud of dust kicking up around him until it’s just the flailing engine and his crumpled corpse.

 

* * *

 

Arvo leads the children into the main corridor where Max and Daku are pillaging some of the stores. A pair of wire cutters rest on the floor, and when he peers inside one of the stores—a pharmacy judging by the symbol and markings—Max is stuffing small white boxes into a duffle bag. A group of former Canyon people have gathered near the end of the hallway, by the anteroom that leads up to the entrance. They’re warily watching the activity and Arvo waves a little to show them it’s alright. 

Daku is milling about the clothing shop with equally bulging bags, pillaging as well.

“You,” Max spits, pointing to the group of Canyon people when he emerges from the pharmacy. “Come here.”

Some of the older Canyon people approach and Arvo utters a soft, “Max,” nodding to the gun he’s waving through the air. The alpha grunts in understanding and sheathes it in the waistband of his trousers. “You can choose: Live at The Citadel or you can stay here and watch the rest of this,” he waves to the pharmacy. “The Citadel will bring you gasoline for the generators to keep everything cool and running.”

A man with a long white beard considers him. “Food?”

Max nods, “That too. And we’ll leave guns. You’ll be protected. But no more soldiers.”

The elder glances back to the group of adults who unenthusiastically nod. “We’re too old to make another trek. The children can do as they like, but we’ll stay here and watch the provisions. Tell Furiosa she has our allegiance.”

“She doesn’t eat people, you know,” Arvo interjects, feeling this is an important detail to convey.

The elder smiles faintly. “I know, child.”

 

* * *

 

“Guns alone can’t lead. You need the approval of the people,” Furiosa says when they’re finally all reunited up top. Max processes these words as though he’s dreaming them, eyes shut, face angled towards the sun’s rays. He hasn’t felt natural light in thirty days. She’s responding to their shocked declaration that an army in the perfect bunker, armed to the teeth, has been defeated by a sneaky Canyon child and his moderately armed companions. “If the people don’t believe in the cause…” she shakes her head, “Nothing else matters.” 

Max thought he would be relieved to see their bikes, Gadget, and Furiosa waiting for them. He was unprepared for the wave of emotion—for the way his throat seized up when he gripped his brother in a fierce hug as Gadget comfortingly rubbed his back and said, “You’re safe. It’s over.”

_Arthur. The babies. He’s going to see them again._

The impossible is real.

“This is Furiosa,” Arvo declares, introducing the frightened huddle of children to the Citadel’s queen. Her lips curve upwards and Max knows this is her attempt at appearing friendly, but Furiosa is not very good with children. “She looks spooky but she’s nice,” the boy assures his friends.

Gadget laughs and has to disguise it with a cough.

The children pile into one of the trucks, to be taken to the Citadel. 

“There’s enough medicine down there for years, as long as they keep the generators running,” Max tells her and she nods. 

“Vaccinations, birth control, cough medicine, you name it,” Daku continues, “Clothing and cars too. I heard some of the soldiers talking about a parking lot. It’s probably further south.”

Furiosa’s eyes shine, and while Max can’t be sure, he thinks she may be proud of them. “You did well.” She squeezes Max’s shoulder. “I won’t forget the sacrifice you made.”

 

* * *

 

They decide it’s quicker to take the bikes back so Furiosa and the Citadel soldiers can get the children relocated in a timely fashion. Arvo rides on Max’s bike, clinging to his waist, and they pause halfway to the village when the sun is too low in the sky to properly see where they’re headed. The alphas pitch three tents and then build a fire for them to sit around. “Never thought I’d say this, but I missed your stupid stories,” Daku says to Gadget and Max chuckles as he extends his fingers closer to the flames. He knows exactly what the alpha means. 

He missed everything about Arthur and his children, but he missed the little things too: Gadget’s stories, Conch’s quick tears and lovely music, The Dag’s fierce temper and her wicked breed of humor, Dog’s cold wet nose waking him in the morning, the sound of the village’s children laughing and crying, Goat’s bloody loud bleating (for Walhalla’s sake). Everything. He missed every blessed minute of it.

Normally, he’d only think such a thing, but he almost died—Daku too—and feels like maybe it’s time to share such thoughts. 

“That’s how you know it’s home,” Arvo points out and they’re quiet after that because he’s right, and what else is there to say?

 

* * *

 

The alphas return to the village on the thirty-first day, and appropriately Tallara is the first to see them approaching from the horizon. Arthur had let her wander outside the hut for just a moment because she’s determined to walk these days, and he was busy swaddling her sister. “Dada!” she suddenly screams and Arthur races outside. 

“Max!” he shouts and runs towards the bikes, the alpha barely getting the kickstand down and the engine switched off before he finds his arms full of his mate, who repeatedly cries _glory, glory_ , and clings to him as though afraid he may vanish.

He tries to be strong, shushing and comforting Arthur, who is a shaking, crying mess in his arms, but then it’s all too much and he buries his nose and mouth in Arthur’s thick locks and releases the tears: all the fear and pain in a cleansing deluge. _I thought I’d never see you again_. They cling to one another, Max breathing in his scent, until through the haze he hears his daughter’s voice. “Come on,” he says and takes Arthur’s hand, guiding him back to the hut. “Beauty!” he roars, sweeping up the girl into his arms as she gleefully screams. He pulls Arthur close again and simply holds the two of them, breathing in their pheromones and smiling like a fool as Tallara murmurs _dadada_ in greeting. “How did you get so big already?”

“Let’s go inside. You have to see the baby,” Arthur whispers, voice still quaking with emotion.

“Kiah,” Max says, because he’s been thinking about it for quite some time while sitting in his prison cell, and growing tired of referring to his own flesh and blood as _the child_ , even within the confines of his own skull.

The name means _beauty_ , which is what he calls his family anyway, so why not give her the official title? Arthur appears to agree, smiling and tilting his head, letting the name bounce around his ear for a moment. “Kiah,” he sighs in agreement and pulls Max and Tallara inside the hut.

Just before he disappears inside, The Dag and Conch rush from their huts and he sees the youngest omega leap into Daku’s arms, thin limbs looping the poor alpha, who has sustained fairly grave wounds, but doesn’t for a moment consider using them as an excuse to not enthusiastically embrace his mate. Gadget’s greeting is more complicated: a series of strikes to his chest and arms, and copious amounts of swearing, before The Dag finally relents and lets Gadget hug and kiss her. 

Daku carries Conch towards their hut, laughing against the youth’s hungry mouth. “I missed you too,” he breathes, ducking inside and depositing him on the bedding. He drops his bag to the ground as the youth scrambles onto his knees and yanks at the front of his trousers, struggling to open them. Daku doesn’t blame him for his hastiness. The two of them had to suffer through their respective heats alone, and this is by far the longest they’ve gone without rutting since meeting. He strokes Conch’s skull where the hairs have begun to grow back, the short strands tickling his palm. “Where are the babies?” he asks.

“Capable has them,” Conch mumbles, his pink lips pressing kisses to Daku’s lower stomach, the muscles tightening from the attention.

Daku grunts, torn because he’d very much like to see the children, but also a lovely young omega is currently wrestling his rigid cock from his trousers. His mouth drops open when Conch swallows him, and swears loudly, hands cupping the sides of the omega’s skull, over his ears for temporary purchase. He says a silent prayers when Conch draws back with a long, hard suck. “Wait…wait…” he grunts, pushing him back so he can yank open the duffle bag and take out one of the little white boxes. “Here,” he says, pulling out a small plastic receptacle.

Conch kneels and frowns at the device. “What is it?”

“Birth control,” he explains. “You won’t get pregnant for 90 days.” This, apparently, is longer than Conch anticipated judging from his horrified expression. Daku sighs, suspicions that his mate would not react well to the news now confirmed. “It’s just a little while, and Max told me we’ll be the first pairing permitted to have another baby once the food supply evens out.”

The sulk partially lifts from Conch’s face. “Really?”

“The very first,” he promises, pressing the tube to Conch’s bicep as per the directions.

Conch nods, “Okay,” he agrees and Daku push the tip so the chamber decompresses and injects his mate with the birth control. If it hurts, he doesn’t let on. “Is it done?” he asks and Daku smiles.

“Yes,” he says, tossing aside the plastic and laughing when the omega instantly resumes stripping him of his clothes. He’s so delighted by the enthusiastic response that he forgets about the bevy of injuries sustained while being held captive. It’s not until Conch pauses and utters a concerned _Oh_ that he recalls the deep purple and blue blotches marring his skin. “I’m fine,” he assures but it’s too late. Conch stands on the bedding to inspect him closely.

“Daku…your head,” he whispers, not daring to touch the staples, but instead cradling his temple as he gazes in horror at the ugly gash.

“Just a cut. I’ll heal.” He dips close to kiss the omega.

But Conch pulls back and frowns. “No, your nose is swollen too. You’re too hurt. We shouldn’t.”

He gives a frustrated groan and grabs Conch, sweeping him off his feet and pinning him to the bedding. The omega gasps in delighted surprise. “I’m fine,” he growls, fingers untying the linens from Conch’s waist. “I missed you too bloody much to give a toss about some nicks and cuts.”

Conch’s laughter is music and they smile like fools as they squirm out of their attire and wrestle across the bed, first Conch beneath him, then straddling his waist, all the while kissing and nipping until the youth is pinned under him once more. Daku’s mouth tells him the youth’s breasts are smaller now, diminishing as the babies grow fatter on their milk, and soon Conch will be flat-chested once more, beautiful in a different kind of way. He lovingly nuzzles the buds, kissing and sucking on the tender flesh as Conch pants and runs his fingers through the alpha’s hair.

Daku’s nose tells him when his mate is ready, confirmed by wandering fingertips a moment later as they dip between the omega’s thighs and come back wet. Conch is so soaked that he doesn’t even have to thrust. He simply presses between Conch’s thighs as he sinks downward onto his cock. “Ah…” he sighs, back arched and eyes pinched shut and Daku bows his head, a pained groan torn from his throat even though it feels _so good_.

His memories were a poor substitute for the flesh and blood of Conch. They writhe against one another, the youth wet, alive, and burning hot beneath him, legs wrapping Daku’s waist and dragging him forth in demanding sweeps, his fingers clenching the alpha’s biceps, and finally his face so they can kiss while rutting. Daku whispers against his mouth, saying he loves him—more than anything—and Conch’s tears are his answer. 

Conch pushes him away so he can roll onto his stomach and they finish that way, Daku draped across his back, sucking bruises into the curve of the omega’s neck as he wails his approval. He collapses to the side and pulls Conch close, teeth sinking into the sinewy rope of muscle between shoulder and neck when the knot begins to grow. Conch moans, arching his neck and permitting his mouth more room to wander, which it does, right up to the shell of Conch’s ear. “Good?” 

An answer in the form of a tremor travels his spine, followed by a burst of warmth pooling between them. “I dreamed about this,” he says a moment later.

“Me too…And you, swimming in the water.”

Conch’s beautiful eyes gaze back at him. “I remember that. You were sitting…on the bank.”

He’s not sure what to make of their connection—of anything that’s happened. An old word visits him, last said by an elder from his first village: _soulmates_ , a name given to those with especially strong bonds. Could that explain the hallucinations? Their ability to communicate across long distances? The questions and implications are too enormous, so he kisses Conch instead.

 

* * *

 

Max cradles Kiah with one arm. She’s so tiny that her head comfortably rests in his palm, her body stretched out across his forearm. Tallara stands nearby, warily watching the baby. “This is your sister,” he explains and she nods, gravely serious. Arthur sits beside Max, smiling as he watches the exchange. “That means you need to look out for her. Protect her.” 

Tallara’s brow is furrowed in concentration as she stares at the baby and Max smirks. “She looks like you,” he whispers, glancing his way.

It’s true. Kiah has his coloring: the same eyes and fair skin. He can’t be sure, but the other day she smiled and he may have spotted a dimple.

They spend the remainder of the day simply reuniting as a family, and the others must be doing the same because no one emerges come dinner time. No one feels like eating, judging by the soft simpering that occasionally drift from the other huts. The girls are exhausted from all the excitement and Max helps him put them to bed before they retire themselves, curled together against the hut’s opposite wall. They kiss, deep and unhurried, Max’s hands large and strong as they grip his hip and rear, smoothing along the column of his spine to grip the back of his neck.

“Max…” he whispers and the alpha nods in understanding. They quickly shed their clothing, even Max’s boots, the alpha for once uncaring of Dog’s protective streak for his mate. The coupling is brief: desperate, a little rough. _Perfect_. He quiets himself by biting the flesh of Max’s shoulder and the alpha kisses his temple afterwards, the knot thick and heavy inside, a perfect anchor. The alpha rubs his beard against Arthur’s cheek. His mate’s scent is heavy because he hasn’t bathed in many days, but Arthur likes it, enormously comforted by Max’s potent pheromones that surround him like a protective blanket.

They rest side-by-side, Max draped across his back, pressing kisses between Arthur’s shoulder blades. When his heart beat slows to a distant thud, he asks: “Why don’t we share memories?” He gazes over his shoulder to Max’s confused face. “Daku and Conch could communicate during their heats. Why can’t we do that?”

The alpha hums, kissing his shoulder. “You dreamt of me before we met, didn’t you?”

“I dreamt of a wolf,” Arthur corrects, smiling.

“Oh, that’s right…” Their cheeks press together and Arthur sighs, eyes slipping shut to enjoy the warmth and protection, the first time he’s felt safe in the hut—within their village—for many days. “So that doesn’t count?”

Arthur considers the question for a moment. He remembers the first time they met—when their gazes locked and Max ordered him to bring the hose and Arthur asked if he was a pirate. Back when he was Immortan’s slave, nothing more than a baby incubator. He remembers some unseen force pulling him towards Max’s tent, the first night they knotted. All the times they’ve looked at each other and simply _known_ what the other was thinking—how Max recognizes his strength and never shames him for it. How Max has torn apart men in order to be with him and their girls.

Yes, theirs is a deep connection.

Now, as he considers their situation in the strong embrace of his mate, he feels silly for ever doubting that. Their bond may take different forms, but it’s there, ever-flowing, relentless like a mighty river. 

His chin lifts and he kisses Max’s mouth. “It counts,” he decides.

_My wolf._

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr! theaoidos.tumblr.com


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